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See. paye 48. 



THE 



REMAINS 



OF 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 



OF NOTTINGHAM, 



LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 




No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living Statues there are seen to weep, 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 

Byron. 



LONDON : 

PUBLISHED BY JONES & COMPANY, 

TEMPLE OF THE MUSES, (LATE LACKINGTON'S,) 
FINSBURY SQUARE. 



183] 



)?3 



GLASGOW: 

HUTCHISON & BHOOKMAN, SBINTBKi TO THB UNIVHRSITi 



THE 



PROSE REMAINS 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 



OF NOTTINGHAM, 



LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 



CONTAINING HIS 



LETTERS, ESSAYS, 



LONDON : 

PUBLISHED BY JONES & COMPANY, 

TEMPLE OF THE MUSES, (LATE LACKINGTON'S,) 
FINSBURY SQUARE. 

1831. 



GLASGOW: 
HUTCHISON & BROOKMAN, PUINTEKS TO THE UNIVERSITY, 



CONTENTS. 



Page. 

Letters 1—60 

Remarks on the English Poets .... 61 

Sternhold and Hopkins 62 

Remarks on the English Poets. Warton . 63 
Cursory Remarks on Tragedy ..... 66 



Melancholy Hours. 



No. I. 

II. 
III. 
IV. 

V. 

VI. 



Melancholy Hours, No. VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 



Page. 
. 78 
. 80 
. 82 
. 85 



REFLECTIONS. 

I. On Prayer 90 

II 92 

HI. . , . . 93 



IbIBWIBIR8» 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham, September, 1" 



DEAR BROTHER, 



In consequence of your repeated solicita- 
tions, I now sit down to write toyou, although I 
never received an answer to the last letter 
which 1 wrote, nearly six months ago ; but, as 
I never heard you mention it in any of my 
mother's letters, I am induced to think it has 
miscarried, or been mislaid in your office. 

It is now nearly four months since I entered 
into Mr. Coldham's office ; and it is with pleas- 
ure I can assure you, that I never yet found 
any thing disagreeable, but, on the contrary, 
every thing I do seems a pleasure to me, and 
for a very obvious reason, — it is a business 
which 1 like — a business which I chose before 
all others ; and 1 have two good-tempered, 
easy masters, but who will, nevertheless, see 
that their business is done in a neat and pro- 
per manner. The study of the law is well 
known :.o be a dry, difficult task, and requires 
a comprehensive, good understanding; and I 
hope you will allow me (without charging me 
with egotism) to have a tolerable one ; and I 
trust with perseverance, and a very large law 
library to refer to, I shall be able to accom- 
plish the study of so much of the laws of Eng- 
land, and our system of jurisprudence, in less 
than five years, as to enable me to be a country 
attorney ; and then, as I shall have two more 
years to serve, I hope I shall attain so much 
knowledge in all parts of the law, as to enable 
me, with a little study at the inns of court, 
to hold an argument on the nice points in the 
law with the best attorney in the kingdom. A 
man that understands the law is sure to have 
business ; and in case I have no thoughts, in 
case that is, that I do not aspire to hold the 
honourable place of a barrister, I shall feel 
sure of gaining a genteel livelihood at the 
business to which I am articled. 

I attend at the office at eight in the morning, 
and leave at eight in the evening; then at- 
tend my Latin until nine, which, you may be 
sure, is pretty close confinement. 

Mr. Coldham is clerk to the commercial 
commissioners, which has occasioned us a 



deal of extraordinary work. I worked all Sun- 
day, and until twelve o'clock on Saturday 
night, when they were hurried to give in the 
certificates to the bank. We had also a very 
troublesome cause last assizes, The Corpora- 
tion versus Gee, which we (the attorneys for 
the corporation) lost. It was really a very 
fatiguing day, (I mean the day on which it 
was tried.) I never got any thing to eat, from 
five in the afternoon the preceding day, until 
twelve the next night, when the trial ended. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 26th June, 1800. 
DEAR BROTHER, 

***** 

My mother has allowed me a good deal late- 
ly for books, and I have a large assortment (a 
retailer's phrase.) But I hope you do not 
suppose they consist of novels ; — no — 1 have 
made a firm resolution never to spend above 
one hour at this amusement. Though I have 
been obliged to enter into this resolution in 
consequence of a vitiated taste acquired by 
reading romances, I do not intend to banish 
them entirely from my desk. After long and 
fatiguing researches in Blackstone or Coke, 
when the mind becomes weak, through intense 
application, Tom Jones, or Robinson Crusoe, 
will afford a pleasing and necessary relaxa- 
tion. 

A-propos — now we are speaking of Robin- 
son Crusoe, I shall observe, that is allowed to 
be the best novel for youth in the English lan- 
guage. De Foe, the author, was a singular 
character ; but as I make no doubt you have 
read his life, I will not trouble you with any 
further remarks. 

The books which I now read with attention, 
are Blackstone, Knox's Essays, Plutarch, 
Chesterfield's Letters, four large volumes, Vir- 
gil, Homer, and Cicero, and several others. 
Blackstone and Knox, Virgil and Cicero, I 
have got ; the others I read out of Mr. Cold- 
ham's library. I have finished Rollin's 
A 



2 



Ancient History, Blair's Lectures, Smith's 
Wealth of Nations, Hume's England, and 
British Nepos, lately. When I have read Knox 
I will send it you, and recommend it to your 
attentive perusal ; it is a most excellent work. I 
also read now the British Classics, the com- 
mon edition of which I now take in ; it comes 
every fortnight ; I dare say you have seen it ; it 
is Cooke's edition. I would recommend you 
also to read these ; I will send them to you. I 
have got the Citizen of the World, Idler, Gold- 
smith's Essays, and part of the Rambler. 1 will 
send you soon the fourth number of the Month- 
ly Preceptor. I am noticed as worthy of com- 
mendation, and as affording an encouraging 
prospect of future excellence. — You will 
laugh. I have also turned poet, and have 
translated an Ode of Horace into English 
verse, also for the Monthly Preceptor, but, 
unfortunately, when I sent it, I forgot the 
title, so it wont be noticed. 

I do not forsake the flowery paths of poesy, 
for that is my chief delight ; I read the best 
poets. Mr. Coldham has got Johnson's com- 
plete set, with their lives ; these of course I 
read. 

With a little drudgery, I read Italian — Have 
got some good Italian works, as Pastor Fido, 
&c. &c. I taught myself, and have got a 
grammar. 

I must now beg leave to return you my sin- 
cere thanks for your kind present. I like 
" La Bruyere the Less" very much; 1 have 
read the original La Bruyere: I think him 
like Rouchefoucault. Madame de Genlis is a 
very able woman. 



But I must now attempt to excuse my ne- 
glect in not writing to you. First, 1 have 
been very busy with these essays and poems 
for the Monthly Preceptor. Second, I 
was rather angry at your last letter — 1 can 
bear any thing but a sneer, and it was one 
continued grin from beginning to end, as were 
all the notices you made of me in my mother's 
letters, and I could not, nor can I now, brook 
it. I could say much more, but it is very late, 
and must beg leave to wish you good night. 
I am, dear brother, 

Your affectionate friend, 

H. K. WHITE. 

Jp. S. You may expect a regular correspon- 
dence from me in future, but no sneers ; and 
shall be very obliged by a long letter. 



H K. WHITE'S 

TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham, 15th June, 180C. 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



You are inclined to flatter me when you 
compare my application with yours ; in truth, 
I am not half so assiduous as you, and I am 
conscious I waste a deal of time unwittingly. 
But, in reading, I am upon the continual search 
for improvement : I thirst after knowledge, 
and though my disposition is naturally idle, I 
conquer it when reading a useful book. The 
plan which I pursued, in order to subdue my 
disinclination to dry books, was this, to begin 
attentively to peruse it, and continue thus one 
hour every day ; the book insensibly, by this 
means, becomes pleasing to you ; and even 
when reading Blackstone's Commentaries, 
which are very dry, I lay down the book with 
regret. 

With regard to the Monthly Preceptor, I 
certainly shall be agreeable to your tak- 
ing it in, as my only objection was the ex- 
treme impatience which I feel to see whether 
my essays have been successful ; but this may 
be obviated by your speedy perusal, and not 
neglecting to forward it. But you must have 
the goodness not to begin till August, as my 
bookseller cannot stop it this month. 



I had a ticket given me to the boxes, on 
Monday night, for the benefit of Campbell, 
from Drury-Lane, and there was such a riot as 
never was experienced here before. He is a 
democrat, and the soldiers planned a riot. in 
conjunction with the mob. We heard the 
shouting of the rabble in the street before the 
play was over ; the moment the curtain dropt, 
an officer went into the front box, and gave 
the word of command; immediately about six- 
ty troopers started up, and six trumpeters in 
the pit played " God save the king." The noise 
was astonishing. The officers in the boxes 
then drew their swords; and at another 
signal the privates in the pit drew their 
bludgeons, which they had hitherto concealed, 
and attacked all indiscriminately, that had 
not a uniform : the officers did the same with 
their swords, and the house was one continued 
scene of confusion : one pistol was fired, and 
the ladies were fainting in the lobby. The 



LETTERS, 



outer doors were shut to keep out the mob, 
and the people jumped on the stage as a last 
resource. One of these noble officers, seeing 
one man stand in the pit with his hat on, 
jumped over the division, and cut him with his 
swQrd,which the man instantly wrenched from 
him, and broke, whilst the officer sneaked back 
in disgrace. They then formed a troop, and 
having emptied the play-house, they scoured 
the streets with their swords, and returned 
home victorious. The players are, in conse- 
quence, dismissed ; and we have informations 
in our office against the officers. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, Michaelmas-day, 1800. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 

I cannot divine what, in an epistolary cor- 
respondence, can have such charms (with peo- 
ple who write only common place occurrences) 
as to detach a man from his usual affairs, and 
make him waste time and paper on what can- 
not be of the least real benefit to his corres- 
pondent. Amongst relatives, certainly there 
is always an incitement ; we always feel an 
anxiety for their welfare. But I have no 
friend so dear to me, as to cause me to take 
the trouble of reading his letters, if they only 
contained an account of his health, and the mere 
nothings of the day ; indeed, such an one would 
be unworthy of friendship. What then is re- 
quisite to make one's correspondence valuable ? 
I answer, sound sense. Nothing more is re- 
quisite ; as to the style, one may very readily ex- 
cuse its faults, if repaid by the sentiments. You 
have better natural abilities than many youth, 
but it is with regret I see that you will not 
give yourself the trouble of writing a good 
letter. There is hardly any species of compo- 
sition (in my opinion) easier than the epistol- 
ary ; but, my friend, you never found any art, 
however trivial, that did not require some ap- 
plication at first. For, if an artist, instead of 
endeavouring to surmount the difficulties which 
presented themselves, were to rest contented 
with mediocrity, how could he possibly ever 
arrive at excellence? Thus 'tis with you j in- 
stead of that indefatigable perseverance which, 
in other cases, is a leading trait in your char- 
acter, I hear you say, " Ah, my poor brains 
were never formed for letter-writing— I shall 
never write a good letter," or some such 
phrases ; and thus by despairing of ever arriv- 
ing at excellence, you render yourself hardly 



tolerable. You may, perhaps, think this art 
beneath your notice, or unworthy of your pains ; 
if so, you are assuredly mistaken, for there is 
hardly any thing which would contribute more 
to the advancement of a young man, or which 
is more engaging. 

You read, I believe, a good deal ; nothing 
could be more acceptable to me, or more im- 
proving to you, than making a part of your 
letters to consist of your sentiments, and opin- 
iou of the books you peruse ; you have no 
idea how beneficial this would be to yourself; 
and thatyou are able to do it I am certain. One 
of the greatest impediments to good writing, is 
the thinking too much before you note down. 
This, I think, you are not entirely free from. 
I hope, that by always writing the first idea 
that presents itself, you will soon conquer it ; 
my letters are always the rough first draft, of 
course there are many alterations ; these you 
will excuse. 

I have written most of my letters to you in 
so negligent a manner, that, if you would have 
the goodness to return all you have preserved, 
sealed, I will peruse them, and all sentences 
worth preserving I will extract, and return. 

You observe,,in your last, that your letters 
are read with contempt. — Do you speak as you 
think ? 

You had better write again to Mr. . 



Between friends, the common forms of the 
world in writing letter for letter, need not be 
observed ; but never write three without re- 
ceiving one in return, because in that case they 
must be thought unworthy of answer. 

We have been so busy lately, I could not 
answer yours sooner. — Once a month suppose 
we write to each other. If you ever find that 
my correspondence is not worth the trouble of 
carrying on, inform me of it, and it shall cease. 



P. S. If any expression in this be too harsh, 
excuse it.— I am not in an ill humour, recollect. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Nottingham, 11th April, 1801. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 

On opening yours, I was highly pleased to 
find two and a half sheets of paper, and nothing 
could exceed my joy at so apparently a long let- 
ter but, upon finding it consisted of sides filled 



4 H. K. 

after the rate of five words in a line, and nine 
lines in a page, I could not conceal my cha- 
grin ; and I am sure 1 may very modestly say, 
that one of my ordinary pages contains three 
of yours : if you knew half the pleasure I feel 
in your correspondence, I am confident you 
would lengthen your letters. You tantalize 
e with the hopes of a prolific harvest, and I 
find, alas ! a thin crop, whose goodness only 
makes me lament its scantiness. 



I had almost forgot to tell you, that I have 
obtained the first prize (of a pair of Adams' 
twelve-inch globes, value three guineas) in the 
first class of the Monthly Preceptor. The 
subject was an imaginary tour from London 
to Edinburgh. It is printed consequently, and 
shall send it to you the very first opportunity. 
The proposals stated, that the essay was not 
to exceed three pages when printed — mine 
takes seven ; therefore I am astonished they 
gave me the first prize. There was an extra- 
ordinary number of candidates ; and they said 
they never had a greater number of excellent 
ones, and they wished they could have given 
thirty prizes. You will find it (in a letter) ad- 
dressed to N , meaning yourself. 



Warton is a poet from whom 1 have derived 
the most exquisite pleasure and gratification. 
He abounds in sublimity and loftiness of 
thought, as well as expression. His " Plea- 
sures of Melancholy" is truly a sublime poem. 
The following passage I particularly admire : 

" Nor undelightful in the solemn noon 

Of night, where, haply wakeful from my couch 

I start, lo, all is motionless around ! 

Roars not the rushing wind; the sons of men, 

And every beast, in mute oblivion lie : 

All Nature's hush'd in silence, and in sleep. 

Oh, then, how fearful is it to reflect, 

That through the still globe's awful solitude 

No being wakes but me." 

How affecting are the latter lines ! it is impos- 
sible to withstand the emotions which rise on 
its perusal, and I envy not that man his in- 
sensibility who can read them with apathy. 
Many of the pieces of the Bible are written in 
this sublime manner : one psalm, I think the 
18th, is a perfect master-piece, and has been 
imitated by many poets. Compare these, or 
the above quoted from Warton, with the finest 
piece in Pope, and then judge of the rank 
which he holds as a poet. Another instance 
of the swblirae i-a poetry I will give you, frorr 



WHITE'S 

Akenside's admirable " Pleasures of Imagi- 
nation," where, speaking of the soul he says, 
she 

" Rides on the vollied lightning through the heavens, 
And yoked with whirlwinds, and the northern blast, 
Sweeps the long tract of day." 

Many of these instances of sublimity will oc- 
cur to you in Thomson. 

James begs leave to present you with 
Bloomfield's Farmer's Boy. Bloomfield has 
no grandeur or height ; he is a pastoral poet, 
and the simply sweet is what you are to ex- 
pect from him ; nevertheless, his descriptions 
are sometimes little inferior to Thomson. 



How pleased should I be, Neville, to have 
you with us at Nottingham ! Our fire-side 
would be delightful. — I should profit by your 
sentiments and experience, and you possibly 
migkt gain a little from my small bookish 
knowledge. But I am afraid that lime will 
never come ; your time of apprenticeship is near- 
ly expired, and, in all appearance, the small 
residue that yet remains will be passed in 
hated London. When you are emancipated, 
you will have to mix in the bustle of the world, 
in all probability, also, far from home; so that 
when we have just learnt how happy we 
might mutually make ourselves, we find scarce- 
ly a shadow of a probability of ever having the 
opportunity. Well, well, it is in vain to resist 
the immutable decrees of fate. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLK. 



Nottingham, April, 1801. 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



As I know you will participate with me in 
the pleasure I receive from literary distinc- 
tions, I hasten to inform you, that my poetical 
Essay on Gratitude is printed in this month's 
Preceptor ; that my remarks on Warton are 
promised insertion in the next month's Mirror ; 
and that my Essay on Truth is printed in the 
present (April) Monthly Visitor. The Pre- 
ceptor I shall not be able to send you until the 
end of this month. The Visitor you will here- 
with receive. The next month's Mirror I shall 
consequently buy. I wish it were not quite so 
expensive, as I think it a very good work. 
Benjamin Thomson, Capel Lofft, Esq., Robert 



Bloomfield, Thomas Dermody, Mr. Gilchrist, 
under the signature of Octavjus, Mrs. Blore, 
a noted female writer, under the signature of 
Q. Z., are correspondents; and the editors 
are not only men of genius and taste, but of 
the greatest respectability. As I shall now be 
a regular contributor to this work, and as I 
think it contains much good matter, I have 
half an inclination to take it in, more especial- 
ly as you have got the prior volumes : but in 
\he present state of my finances it will not be 
prudent, unless you accede to a proposal, 
which, I think, will be gratifying to yourself. 
— It is, to take it in conjunction with me ; by 
which means we shall both have the same en- 
joyment of it, with half the expense. It is of 
little consequence who takes them, only he 
must be expeditious in reading them. If you 
have any the least objection to this scheme, do 
not suppress it through any regard to punc- 
tilio. I have only proposed it, and it is not very 
material whether you concur or not; only exer- 
cise your own discretion. 

You say, (speaking of a passage concerning 
you in my last,) " this is compliment suffi- 
cient; the rest must be flattery." — Do you 
seriously, Neville, thinkme capable of flattery ? 

As you well know I am a carping, critical 
little dog, you will not be surprised at my ob- 
serving that there is one figure in your last that 
savours rather of the ludicrous, when you talk 
of a " butterfly hopping from book to book." 

As to the something that 1 am to find out, 
that is a perpetual bar to your progress in 
knowledge, &c, I am inclined to think, Doc- 
tor, it is merely conceit. You fancy that you 
cannot write a letter — you dread its idea ; you 
conceive that a work of four volumes would 
require the labours of a life to read through ; 
you persuade yourself that you cannot retain 
what you read, and in despair do not attempt 
to conquer these visionary impediments. Confi. 
dence, Neville, in one's own abilities, is a sure 
forerunner (in similar circumstances with the 
present) of success. As an illustration of this, 
I beg leave to adduce the example of Pope, 
who had so high a sense, in his j outh, or rather 
in his infancy, of his own capacity, that there 
was nothing of which, when once set about, he 
did not think himself capable ; and, as Dr. 
Johnson has observed, the natural consequence 
of this minute perception of his own powers, 
was his arriving at as high a pitch of perfec- 
tion as it was possible for a man with his 
few natural endowments to attain. 
***** 

When you wish to read Johnson's Lives of 
the Poets, send for them : I have lately pur- 



LETTERS, 5 

chased them. I have now a large library 
My mother allows me ten pounds per annum 
for clothes. I always dress in a respectable and 
even in a genteel manner, yet I can make much 
less than this sum suffice. My father generally 
gives me one coat in a year, and I make two 
serve. I then receive one guinea per annum 
for keeping my mother's books ; one guinea 
per annum pocket-money ; and by other means 
I gain, perhaps, two guineas more per annum : 
so that I have been able to buy pretty many ; 
and when you come home, you will find me in 
my study surrounded with books and papers. 
I am a perfect garreteer : great part of my 
library, however, consists of professional 
books. Have you ready Burke on the 
Sublime? Knox's Winter Evening ?— Can lend 
them to you, if you have not. 



Really, Neville, were you fully sensible 
how much my time is occupied, principally 
about my profession, as a primary concern, 
and in the hours necessarily set apart to re- 
laxation, on polite literature, to which, as a 
hobby-horse, I am very desirous of paying 
some attention, you would not be angry at my 
delay in writing, or my short letters. It is 
always with joy that I devote a leisure hour to 
you, as it affords you gratification ; and rest 
assured, that I always participate in your 
pleasure, and poignantly feel every adverse 
incident which causes you pain. 

Permit me, however, again to observe, that 
one of my sheets is equal to two of yours ; and 
I cannot but consider this is a kind of falla- 
cious deception, for you always think that 
your letters contain so much more than mine 
because they occupy more room. If you were 
to count the words, the difference would not 
be so great. You must also take in account 
the unsealed communications to periodical 
works, which I now reckon a part of my let- 
ter ; and therefore you must excuse my con- 
cluding on the first sheet, by assuring you 
that I still remain 

Your friend and brother, 

H. K. WHITE. 

P. S. A postscript is a natural appendage to 
a letter — I only have to say, that positively 
you shall receive a six or eight sheet letter, 
and that written legibly, ere long 



TO MR. BOOTH. 

Nottingham, August 12th, 1801. 
DEAR SIR, 
I must beg leave to apologize for not having 
returned my sincere acknowledgments to 
yourself and Mrs. Booth, for your very ac- 
ceptable presents, at an earlier period, i 



H. K. WHITE'S 



now, however, acquit myself of the duty ; and ] 
assure you, that from both of the works I have 
received much gratification and edification, but 
more particularly from one on the Trinity,* a 
production which displays much erudition, and 
a very laudable zeal for the true interests of 
religion. Religious polemics, indeed, have 
seldom formed a part of my studies; though, 
whenever I happened accidentally to turn my 
thoughts to the subject of the Protestant doc- 
trine of the Godhead, and compared it with 
Arian and Socinian, many doubts interfered, 
and I even began to think that the more nicely 
the subject was investigated, the more per- 
plexed it would appear, and was on the point 
of forming a resolution to go to heaven in my 
own way, without meddling or involving my- 
self in the inextricable labyrinth of contro- 
versial dispute, when I received and perused 
this excel ent treatise, which finally cleared 
up the mists which my ignorance had conjured 
around me, and clearly pointed out the real 
truth. The intention of the author precluded 
the possibility of his employing the ornaments 
and graces of composition in his work ; for as 
it was meant for all ranks, it must be suited 
to all capacities ; but the arguments are drawn 
up and arranged in so forcible and perspicuous 
a manner, and are written so plainly, yet plea- 
singly, that I was absolutely charmed with 
them. 

The " Evangelical Clergyman" is a very 
smart piece ; the author possesses a consider- 
able portion of sarcastic spirit, and no little 
acrimony, perhaps not consistent with the 
Christian meekness which he wishes to incul- 
cate. I consider, however, that London would 
not have many graces, or attractions, if des- 
poiled of all the amusements to which, in one 
part of his pamphlet, he objects. In theory, 
the destruction of these vicious recreations is 
very fine : but in practice, I am afraid he 
would find it quite different. * * * The 
other parts of this piece are very just, and 
such as every person must subscribe to. Cler- 
gymen, in general, are not what they ought to 

be ; and I think Mr. has pointed out 

their duties very accurately. But I am afraid 
I shall be deemed impertinent and tiresome, in 
troubling you with ill-timed and obtrusive 
opinions, and beg leave, therefore, to conclude, 
with respects to yourself and Mrs. Booth, by 
assuring you that I am, according to custom 
from time immemorial, and in due form, 
Dear Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 

* Jones on the Trinity. 



TO MR. CHARLESWORTH. 

Nottingham, ISO' 



I am sure you will excuse me for not having 
immediately answered your letter, when I 
relate the cause. — I was preparing, at that 
moment when I received yours, a volume of 
poems for the press, which I shall shortly see 
published. I finished and sent them off for 
London last night ; and I now hasten to ac- 
knowledge your letter. 

I am very happy that any poem of mine 
should meet with your approbation. I prefer 
the cool and dispassionate praise of the dis- 
criminate few, to the boisterous applause of 
the crowd. 

Our professions neither of them leave much 
leisure for the study of polite literature, I my- 
self have, however, coined time, if you will 
allow the metaphor ; and while I have made 
such a proficiency in the law, as has ensured 
me the regard of my governors, I have paid 
my secret devoirs to the ladies of Helicon. 
My draughts at the " fountain Arethuse," it 
is true, have been principally made at the hour 
of midnight, when even the guardian nymphs 
of the well may be supposed to have slept ; 
they are, consequently, stolen and forced. I 
do not see any thing in the confinement of our 
situations, in the mean time, which should se- 
parate congenial minds. A literary acquaint- 
ance is, to me, always valuable ; and a friend 
whether lettered or unlettered, is highly worth 
cultivation. I hope we shall both of us have 
enough leisure to keep up an intimacy which 
began very agreeably for me, and has been 
suffered to decay with regret 

I am not able to do justice to your unfor- 
tunate friend Gill ; I knew him only super- 
ficially, and yet I saw enough of his unassum- 
ing modesty, and simplicity of manners, to 
feel a conviction that he had a valuable heart. 
The verses on the other side are perhaps be- 
neath mediocrity ; they are, sincerely, the 
work of thirty minutes this morning, and I 
send them to you with all their imperfections 
on their head. 

Perhaps they will have sufficient merit for 
the Nottingham paper ; at least their locality 
will shield them a little in that situation, and 
give them an interest they do not otherwise 

possess. 



LETTSRS. 



Do you think calling the Naiads of the foun- 
tains " Nymphs of Paeon" is an allowable 
liberty ? The allasion is to their healthy and 
bracing qualities. 



twenty-seventh, for I had in reality given you 
up for lost. I should long since have written 
to you, in answer to your note about the Lex- 
icon, but was perfectly ignorant of the place 
of your abode. For any thing I knew to the 
contrary, you might have been quaffing the 
juice of the cocoa-nut under the broad ban- 
anes of the Indies, breathing the invigorating 
air of liberty in the broad savannahs of Amer- 
ica, or sweltering beneath the line. I had, 
however, even then, some sort of a presenti- 
ment that you were not quite so far removed 
from our foggy atmosphere, but not enough 

to prevent me from being astonished at finding 
dly the Death of Mr Gill who was droned in near ug ag Lsicester> y ou teU me r 

iver Trent, while bathing, 9th August, 1802. A x . 

must not ask you what you are doing ; I am, 

nevertheless, very anxious to know ; not so 
much, I flatter myself, from any inquisitiveness 
of spirit, as from a desire to hear of your wel- 
fare. Why, my friend, did you leave us ? 
possessing, as you did, if not exactly the 
otium cum dignitate, something very like it ; 
having every comfort and enjoyment at your 
call, which the philosophical mind can find 
pleasure in ; and, above all, blessed with that 
easy competence, that sweet independence, 
which renders the fatigues of employment 
supportable, and even agreeable. 



The last line of the seventh stanza contains 
an apparent pleonasm, to say no worse of it, 
and yet it was not written as such. The idea 
was from the shriek o! Death, (personified) and 
the scream of the dying man. 



ELEGY 

Occasioned 
the River 

1. 

He sunk — th' impetuous river roll'd along, 

The sullen wave betray'd his dying breath ; 
And rising sad the rustling sedge among, 
The gale of evening touch'd the cords of death 

2. 
Nymph of the Trent ! why didst not thou appear 

To snatch the victim from thy felon wave! 
Alas ! too late thou cam'st to embalm his bier, 

And deck with water-flags his early grave. 



Triumphant, riding o'er its tumid prey, 
Rolls the red stream in sanguinary pride j 

While anxious crowds, in vain, expectant stay, 
And atk the swoln cor^e from the murdering tide 



The stealing tear drop stagnates in the eye, 
The sudden sigh by friendship's bosom proved, 

I mark them rise— I mark the general sigh ; 
Unhappy youth ! and wert thou so beloved ? 



On thee, as lone I trace the Trent's green brink, 
When the dim twilight slumbers on the glade; 

On thee my thoughts shall dwell, nor Fancy shrink 
To hold mysterious converse with thy shade. 

P. 
Of thee, as early I, with vagrant feet, 

Hail the gray-sandal'd morn in Colwick's vale, 
Of thee my sylvan reed shall warble sweet, 

And wild- wood echoes shall repeat the tale. 



And, oh ! ye nymphs of Paeon ! who preside 

O'er running rill and salutary stream, 
Guard ye in future well the halcyon tide 

From the rude Death-shriek and the dying scream. 



TO iVI ?. M. HARRIS. 

Nottingham, 28th March, 1802. 
DEAR SIR, 

I was greatly surprised at your letter of the 



Quod satis est, cui contingit, nihil ampffiis optet. 

Certainly, to a man of your disposition, no 
situation could have more charms than yours 
at the Trent-Bridge. I regard those hours 
which I spent with you there, while the moon- 
beam was trembling on the waters, and the 
harp of Eolus was giving us its divine swells 
and dying falls, as the most sweetly tranquil 
of my life. 



I have applied myself rather more to Latin 
than to Greek since you left us. I make use 
of Schrevelius' Lexicon, but shall be obliged 
to you to buy me the Parkhurst, at any decent 
price, if possible. Can you tell me any mode 
of joining the letters in writing in the Greek 
character ; I find it difficult enough. The fol- 
lowing is my manner ; is it right ? 



I can hardly flatter myself that you will give 
yourself the trouble of corresponding with me 
as all the advantage would be on my side 
without any thing to compensate for it on 
yours ; but — but in fact I do not know what to 
say further, — only, that whenever you shall 
think me worthy of a letter, I shall be highly 
gratified. 



H. K. WHITE'S 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham, 10th February, 1803. 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



Now with regard to the subscription, I 
shall certainly agree to this mode of publica- 
tion, and 1 am very much obliged to you for 
what you say regarding it. But we must wait 
(except among your private friends) until we 
get Lady Derby's answer, and Proposals are 
printed. I think we shall readily raise 350, 
though Nottingham is the worst place imagin- 
able for any thing of that kind. Even envy 
will interfere. I shall send proposals to 
Chesterfield, to my uncle ; to Sheffield, to Miss 
Gales', (booksellers,) whom I saw at Chester- 
field, and who have lately sent me a pressing 
invitation to S , accompanied with a de- 
sire of Montgomery (the Poet Paul Positive) to 
see me ; to Newark — Allen and Wright, my 
friends there, (the latter a bookseller ;) and I 
think if they were stitched up with all the 
Monthly Mirrors, it would promote the sub- 
scription. You are not to take any money ; 
that would be absolute begging : the sub- 
scribers put down their names, and pay the 
bookseller of whom they get the copy. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham, 10th March, 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



I am cured of patronage hunting ; I will not 
expose myself to any more similar mortifica- 
tions, but shall thank you to send the manu- 
scripts to Mr. Hill, with a note, stating that I 
had written to the Duchess, and receiving no 
answer, you had called, and been informed by 
a servant, that in all probability she never read 
the letter, as she desired to know what the 
book was left therefor ; that you had in conse- 
quence, come away with the manuscripts, un- 
der a conviction that your brother would give 
Her Grace no further trouble. State also, 
that you have received a letter from me, ex- 
pressing a desire that the publication might be 
proceeded on without any further solicitation 
or delay. 

A name of eminence was, nevertheless, a 
most desirable thing to me in Nottingham, as it 
wouid attach more respectability to the sub- 
scription ; but I see all further efforts will 
only be productive of procrastination. 



I think you may as well begin to obtain sub- 
scribers amongst friends now, though the pro- 
posals may not be issued at present. 

I have got twenty-three, without making 
the affair public at all, among my immediate 
acquaintance : and mind, I neither solicit nor 
draw the conversation to the subject, but a 
rumour has got abroad, and has been received 
more favourably than I expected. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham, 2d May, 1803. 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



I have just gained a piece of intelligence 
which much vexes me. Robinson, the book- 
seller, knows that I have written to the 
Duchess of Devonshire, and he took the liber- 
ty (certainly an unwarrantable one) to men- 
tion it to * * *, whose * * * 
was inscribed to Her Grace. Mr. * * 
said, that unless I had got a friend to deliver 
the poems, personally, into the hands of Her 
Grace, it was a hundred to one that they ever 
reached her ; that the porter at the lodge 
burns scores of letters and packets a day, and 
particularly all letters by the two-penny post 
are consigned to the fire. The rest, if they are 
not particularly excepted, as inscribed with a 
pass name on the back, are thrown into a closet, 
to be reclaimed at leisure. He said, the way 
he proceeded was this : — He left his card at 
her door, and the next day called, and was 
admitted. Her Grace then gave him permis- 
sion, with this proviso, that the dedication 
was as short as possible, and contained no 
compliments, as the Duke had taken offence 
at some such compliments. 

Now, as my letter was delivered by you at 
the door, I have scarcely a doubt that it is 
classed with the penny-post letters, and burnt. 
If my manuscripts are destroyed, I am ruined, 
but I hope it is otherwise. However, I think 
you had better call immediately, and ask for 
a parcel of Mr. H. White, of Nottingham. 
They will, of course, say they have no such 
parcel ; and then, perhaps, you may have an 
opportunity of asking whether a packet, left 
in the manner you left mine, had any proba- 
bility of reaching the Duchess. If you obtain 
no satisfaction, there remains no way of re-ob- 
taining my volume but this (and I fear you 



MTTERS. 



will never agree to put it in execution;) to 
leave a card, with your name inscribed, (Mr. 
J. N. White,) and call the next day. If you 
are admitted, you will state to Her Grace the 
purport of your errand, ask for a volume of 
poems in manuscript, sent by your brother a 
fortnight ago, with a letter, (say from Not- 
tingham, as a reason why I do not wait on 
her,) requesting permission of dedication to 
her ; and that as you found Her Grace had 
not received them, you had taken the liberty, 
after many enquiries at her door, to request 
to see her in person. 

I hope your diffidence will not be put to this 
test; I hope you will get the poems without 
trouble : as for begging patronage, I am tired 
to the soul of it, and shall give it up. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham 



1803. 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



I write you, with intelligence of a very im- 
portant nature. You some time ago had an 
intimation of my wish to enter the church, in 
case my deafness was not removed. — About a 
week ago I became acquainted with the Rev. 
, late of St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge, and in consequence of what he has 
said, I have finally determined to enter my- 
self of Trinity College, Cambridge, with the 
approbation of all my friends. 



Mr. 



says that it is a shame to 



keep me away from the university, and that 
circumstances are of no importance. He says, 
that if I am entered of Trinity, where they are 
all select men, I must necessarily, with my 
abilities, arrive at preferment. He says he 
will be answerable that the first year I shall 
obtain a scholarship, or an exhibition adequate 
to my support. That by the time I have been 
of five years' standing, I shall of course be- 
come a Fellow (2001. a-year ;) that with the 
Fellowship I may hold a Professorship, (5001. 
per annum,) and a living or curacy, until bet- 
ter preferments occur. He says, that there is 
no uncertainty in the church to a truly pious 
man, and a man of abilities and eloquence. 
That those who are unprovided for, are gener- 
ally men who, having no interest, are idle 
drones, or dissolute debauchees, and there- 
fore ought not to expect advancement. That 
a poet, in particular has the means of patron- 



age in his pen : and that, in one word, no young 
man can enter the church (except he be of 
family) with better prospects than myself. On 
the other hand, Mr. Enfield has himself 
often observed, that my deafness will be an 
insuperable obstacle to me as an attorney, and 
has said how unfortunate a thing it was for 
me not to have known of the growing defect, 
in my organs of hearing, before I articled my- 
self. Under those circumstances, I conceive 
I should be culpable did 1 let go so good an 

opportunity as now occurs. Mr. 

will write to all his university friends, and he 
says there is so much liberality there, that 
they will never let a young man of talents be 
turned from his studies by want of cash. 

Yesterday I spoke to Mr. Enfield, and he, 
with unexampled generosity, said that he saw 
clearly what an advantageous thing it would 
be for me ; that I must be sensible what a 
great loss he and Mr. Coldham would suffer ; 
but that he was certain neither he, nor Mr. 

C , could oppose themselves to any 

thing which was so much to my advantage. 

When Mr. C returns from London, 

the matter will be settled with my mother. 

All my mother's friends seem to think this 
an excellent thing for me, and will do all in 
their power to forward me. 

Now we come to a very important part of 
the business— tlte means. I shall go with my 
friend Robert, in the capacity of Sizar, to 
whom the expense is not more than 601. per 
annum. Towards this sum my mother will 
contribute £01., being what she allows me now 
for clothes ; (by this means she will save 
my board:) and, for the residue, I must 
trust to getting a Scholarship, or Chapel 
Clerk's post. But, in order to make this re- 
sidue certain, I shall, at the expiration of 
twelve months, publish a second volume of 
poems by subscription. 

* * * 

My friend, Mr. says, that so far as 

his means will go, I shall never ask assistance 
in vain. He has but a small income, though of 
great family. He has just lost two rectories 
by scruples of conscience, and now preaches 
at for 801. a-year. The following let- 
ter he put into my hand as I was leaving him, 
after having breakfasted with him yesterday. 
He put it into my hand, and requested me not 
to read it until I got home. It is a breach of 
trust letting you see it, but I wish you to know 
his character. " 

" My dear Sir, 
" I sincerely wish I had it in mv rower to 
B 



10 



H. K. WHITE'S 



render you any essential service, to facilitate 
your passing through College : believe me, 
I have the will, but not the means. Should the 
enclosed be of any service, either to purchase 
books, or for other pocket expenses, I request 
your acceptance of it ; but must intreat you 
not to notice it, either to myself, or any living 
creature. I pray God that you may employ 
those talents that he has given you to his 
glory, and to the benefit of his people. I have 
great fears for you ; the temptations of Col- 
lege are great. Believe me 

Very sincerely yours, 

* * »» 

The enclosure was 21. 2s. 1 could not re- 
fuse what was so delicately offered, though I 
was sorry to take it : he is truly an amiable 
character. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham, 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



You may conceive with what emotions I 
read your brotherly letter ; I feel a -very great 
degree of aversion to burthening my family any 
more than I have done, and now do ; but an 
offer so delicate and affectionate I cannot re- 
fuse, and if I should need pecuniary assistance, 
which I am in hopes I shall not, at least after 
the first year, I shall without a moment's hesi- 
tation apply to my brother Neville. 

My college schemes yet remain in a consid 
erable degree of uncertainty ; I am very un- 
easy thereabouts. I have not heard from 
Cambridge yet, and it is very doubtful whether 
(here be a vacant Sizarship in Trinity : so that 
I can write you no further information on this 
head. 



I suppose you have seen my review in this 
month's Mirror, and that I need not comment 
upon it; such a review I neither expected, 
nor in fact deserve. 

I shall not send up the Mirror, this month, 
on this account, as it is policy to keep it ; and 
you have, no doubt, received one from Mr. 
Hill. 

The errors in the Greek quotation I perceiv- 
ed the moment 1 got down the first copies, 



and altered them, in most, with the pen ; tiisy 
are very unlucky ; I have sent up the copies 
for the reviews myself, in order that I might 
make the correction in them. 

I have got now to write letters to all the re- 
viewers, and hope you will excuse my abrupt 
conclusion of this letter on that score. 
I am, 

Dear Neville, 

Affectionately yours, 

H. K. WHITE. 

I shall write to Mr. Hill now the first thing ; 
I owe much to him. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 



Nottingham, 



MY DEAR BEN, 



And now, my dear Ben, I must confess 
your letter gave me much pain ; there is a 
tone of despondence in it which I must con- 
demn, inasmuch as it is occasioned by circum- 
stances which do not involve your own exer- 
tions, but which are utterly independent of 
yourself: if you do your duty, why lament 
that it is aot productive? In whatever situa* 
tion we may be placed, there is a duty we owe 
to God and religion : it is resignation ; — nay, 
I may say, contentment. All things are in the 
hands of God ; and shall we mortals (if we 
do not absolutely repine at his dispensations) 
be fretful under them ? I do beseech you, my 
dear Ben, summon up the Christian within 
you, and steeled with holy fortitude go on 
your way rejoicing ! There is a species of 
morbid sensibility to which I myself have of- 
ten been a victim, which preys upon my heart, 
and, without giving birth to one actively useful 
or benevolent feeling, does but brood on selfish 
sorrows, and magnify its own misfortunes. 
The evils of such a sensibility, I pray to God 
you may never feel ; but I would have you be- 
ware, for it grows on persons of a certain dis- 
position before they are aware of it 

I am sorry my letter gave you pain, and I 
trust my suspicions were without foundation. 
Time, my dear Ben, is the discoverer of hearts, 
and 1 feel a sweet confidence that he will knit 
ours yet more closely together. 

I believe my lot in life is nearly fixed ; a 

month will tell me whether I am to be a minis- 

1 ter of Christ, in the established church, or out. 



LETTERS. 



11 



One of the two, I am now finally resolved, if 
it please God, to be. I know my own unwor- 
thiness : I feel deeply that I am far from being 
that pure and undefiled temple of the Holy 
Ghost that a minister of the word of life ought 
to be, yet still I have an unaccountable hope 
that the Lord will sanctify my efforts, that he 
will purify me, and that I shall become his 
devoted servant. 

I am at present under afflictions and con- 
tentions of spirit, heavier than I have yet ever 
experienced. I think, at times, I am mad, 
and destitute of religion. My pride is not yet 
subdued : the unfavourable review (in the 
" Monthly") of my unhappy work, has cut 
deeper than you could have thought ; not in a 
literary point of view, but as it affects my res- 
pectability. It represents me actually as a 
beggar, going about gathering money to put 
myself at college, when my book is worthless ; 
and this with every appearance of candour. 
They have been sadly misinformed respecting 
me: this Review goes before me wherever I 
turn my steps ; it haunts me incessantly, and 
1 am persuaded it is an instrument in the 
hands of Satan to drive me to distraction. I 
must leave Nottingham. If the answer of the 
Elland Society be unfavourable, I purpose 
writing to the Marquis of Wellesley, to offer 
myself as a student at the academy he has in- 
stituted at Fort William, in Bengal, and at 
the proper age to take orders there. The mis- 
sionaries at that place have done wonders 
already, and I should, I hope, be a valuable 
labourer in the vineyard. If the Marquis take 
no notice of my application, or do not accede 
to my proposal, I shall place myself in some 
other way i f making a meet preparation for 
the holy office, either in the Calvinistic Aca- 
demy, or in one of the Scotch Universities, 
where I shall be able to live at scarcely any 
expense. 



TO MR. R. A . 

Nottingham, 18th April, 1804. 
MY DEAR ROBERT, 

I have just received your letter. Most fer- 
vently do I return thanks to God for this pro- 
vidential opening ; it has breathed new anima- 
tion into me, and my breast expands with the 
prospect of becoming the minister of Christ 
where I most desired it; but where I almost 
feared all probability of suoess was nearly at 



an end. Indeed, I had begun to turn my 
thoughts to the dissenters, as people of whom 
I was destined, not by choice, but necessity, to 
become the pastor. Still, although 1 knew I 
should be happy any where, so that I were a 
profitable labourer in the vineyard, I did, by 
no means, fe£l that calm., that indescribable 
satisfaction which I do, when I look toward 
that church, which I think, in the main, formed 
on the apostolic model, and from which I am 
decidedly of opinion there is no positive grounds 
for dissent. I return thanks to God for keep- 
ing me so long in suspense, for I know it has 
been beneficial to my soul, and I feel a consid- 
erable trust that the way is now about to be 
made clear, and that my doubts and fears on 
this head will, in due time, be removed. 

Could 1 be admitted to St. John's, I con- 
clude, from what I have heard, that my pro- 
vision would be adequate, not otherwise. From 
my mother 1 could depend on 15 or 201, a-year, 
if she live, toward college expenses, and I 
could spend the long vacation at home. The 
201, per annum from my brother would suffice 
for clothes, &c. ; so that if I could procure 201, 
a-year more, as you seem to think I may, by 
the kindness of Mr. Marty n, I conceive I 
might, with economy, be supported at college ; 
of this, however, you are the best judge. 

You may conceive how much I feel obliged 
by Mr. Martyn on this head, as well as to you, 
for your unwearying exertions. Truly, friends 
have risen up to me in quarters where I could 
not have expected them, and they have been 
raised, as it were, by the finger of God. 1 
have reason, above all men, to be grateful to 
the Father of all mercies for his loving-kind- 
ness towards me ; surely no one can have had 
more experience of the fatherly concern with 
which God watches over, protects, and succours 
his chosen seed, than I have had ; and surely 
none could have less expected such a mani- 
festation of his grace, and none could have 
less merited its continuance. 



In pursuance of your injunction, I shall lay 
aside Grotius, and take up Cicero and Livy, 
or Tacitus. In Greek I must rest contented 
for the ensuing fourteen days with the Testa- 
ment; I shall then have conquered the Gos- 
pels, and, if things go on smoothly, the Acts. 
I shall then read Homer, and perhaps Plato's 
Phaedon, which I lately picked up at a stall. 
My c'assical knowledge is very superficial ; 
it has very little depth or solidity ; but I have 
really so small a portion of leisure, that I 
wonder at the progress I do make. I believo 



12 



H. K. WHITE'S 



I must copy the old divines, iu rising at four 
o'clock: for my evenings are so much taken 
up with visiting the sick, and_with young men 
who come for religious conversation, that 
there is but little tixne for study. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 



Nottingham 24th April, 1804. 



MY DEAR BEN, 



Truly I am grieved, that whenever I un- 
dertake to be the messenger of glad tidings, I 
should frustrate my own design, and communi- 
cate to my good intelligence a tint of sadness, 
as it were by contagion. Most joyfully did 
I sit down to write my last, as I knew I had 
wherewith to administer comfort to you ; and 
yet, after all, 1 find that, by gloomy anticipa- 
tions, 1 have converted my balsam into bitter- 
ness, and have by no means imparted that 
unmixed pleasure which I wished to do. 

Forebodings and dismal calculations are, I 
am convinced, very useless, and I think very 
pernicious speculations — " Sufficient for the 
day is the evil thereof." — And yet how apt are 
we, when imminent trials molest us, to increase 
the burden by melancholy ruminations on fu- 
ture evils ! — evils which exist only in our 
own imaginations — and which, should they be 
realized, wiil certainly arrive in time to op- 
press us sufficiently without our adding to 
their existence by previous apprehension, 
and thus voluntarily incurring the penalty of 
misfortunes yet in perspective, and trials yet 
unborn. Let us guard, then, I beseech you, 
against these ungrateful divinations into the 
womb of futurity — we know our affairs are 
iu the hands of one who has wisdom to do 
for us beyond our narrow prudence, and 
we cannot, by taking thought, avoid any af- 
flictive dispensation which God's providence 
taety have in store for us. Let us therefore 
enjoy with thankfulness the present sunshine, 
without adverting to the common storm. Few 
and transitory are the intervals of calm and 
settled day with which we are cheered in the 
tempestuous voyage of life ; we ought there • 
fore to enjoy them, while they last, with un- 
mixed delight, and not turn the blessing into 
a curse by lamenting that it cannot endure 
without interruption. We, my beloved friend, 
are united in our affections by no common 
bands — bands which, I trust, are too strong 
to be easily dissevered — yet we know not 
what God may intend with respect to us, 



nor have we any business to inquire — we 
should rely on the mercy of our Father, who is 
in heaven — and if we are to anticipate, we 
should hope the best. I stand self-accused 
therefore for my prurient, and, I may say, ir- 
religious fears. A prudent foresight, as it may 
guard us from many impending dangers, is 
laudable ; but a morbid propensity to seize 
and brood over future ills, is agonizing, while 
it is utterly useless, and therefore ought to be 
repressed. 

I have received intelligence, since writing 
the above, which nearly settles my future 

destination. A informs me that Mr. 

Marty n, a Fellow of St. John's, has about 
201, a-year to dispose of towards keeping a 
religious man at college — and he seems con- 
vinced that if my mother allows me 201, a- 
year more, 1 may live at St. Jolm's provided I 
could gain admittance, which, at that college, 
is difficult, unless you have previously stood 
in the list for a year. Mr. Marty n thinks, if I 
propose myself immediately, I shall get upon 
the foundation, and by this day's post 1 have 
transmitted testimonials of my ciassical ac- 
quirements. In a few days, therefore, I hope 
to hear that I am on the boards of St. John's. 

Mr. Dashwood has informed me, that~ he 
also has received a letter from a gentleman, a 
magistrate near Cambridge, offering me all 
the assistance in his power towards getting 
through the college, so as there be no obliga- 
tion. My way therefore is now pretty clear. 

I have just risen from my knees, returning 
thanks to our heavenly Father for this provi- 
dential opening — my heart is quite full. Help 
me to be grateful to him, and pray that 1 may 
be a faithful minister of his word. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham. 



MY DEAR NEVILLE, 



I sit down with unfeigned pleasure to 
write, in compliance with your request, that I 
would explain to you the real doctrines of the 
Church of England, or, what is the same 
thing, of the Bible. The subject is most im- 
portant, inasmuch as it affects that part of 
man which is incorruptible, and which must 
exist for ever — his soul. When God made 
the brute creation, he merely embodied the 
dust of the earth, and gave it the power of 
locomotion, or of moving about, and of exist- 



LETTERS. 



13 



Ing in a certain sphere. In order to afford 
mute animals a rule of action, by which they 
might be kept alive, he implanted in them 
certain instincts, from which they can never 
depart. Such is that of self-preservation, and 
the selection of proper food. But he not only 
endued man with these powers, but he gave 
him mind, or spirit — a faculty which enables 
him to ruminate on the objects which he does 
not see — to compare impressions — to invent — 
and to feel pleasure and pain, when their 
causes are either gone or past, or lie in the 
future. This is what constitutes the human 
soul. It is an immaterial essence — no one 
knows what it consists of, or where it resides ; 
the brain and the heart are the organs which 
it most seems to affect ; but it would be ab- 
surd to infer therefrom, that the material 
organs of the heart and the brain constitute the 
soul, seeing that the impressions of the mind 
sometimes affect one organ and sometimes the 
other. Thus, when any of the passions — love, 
hope, fear, pleasure, or pain, are excited, we 
feel them at our heart. When we discuss a 
topic of cool reasoning, the process is carried 
on in the brain ; yet both parts are in a great- 
er or less degree acted upon on all occasions, 
and we may therefore conclude, that the soul 
resides in neither individually, but is an imma- 
terial spirit, which occasionally impresses the 
one, and occasionally the other. That the soul is 
immaterial, has been proved to a mathematical 
demonstration. When we strike, we lift up 
our arm — when we walk, we protrude our legs 
alternately— but when we think, we move no 
organ: the reason depends on no action of 
matter, but seems as it were to hover over us, 
to regulate the machine of our bodies, and to 
meditate and speculate on things abstract as 
well as simple, extraneous as well as connect- 
ed with our individual welfare, without hav- 
ing any bond which can unite it with our 
gross corporeal bodies. The flesh is like the 
temporary tabernacle which the soul inhabits, 
governs, and regulates ; but as it does not 
consist in any organization of matter, our 
bodies may die, and return to the dust from 
whence they were taken, while our souls — 
incorporeal essences— are incapable of death 
and annihilation. The spirit is that portion of 
God's own immortal nature, which he breathed 
into our clay at our birth, and which there- 
fore cannot be destroyed, but will continue to 
exist when its earthly habitation is mingled 
with its parent dust. We must admit, there- 
fore, what all ages and nations, savage as well 
as civilized, have acknowledged, that we 
have souls, and that, as they are incorporeal, 
they do not die with our bodies, but are 
necessarily immortal. The question then 



naturally arises, what becomes of them after 
death? Here man of his own wisdom must 
stop : — but God has thought fit, in his mercy, 
to reveal to us in a great measure the secret 
of our natures, and in the Holy Scriptures 
we find a plain and intelligible account of 
the purposes of our existence, and the things 
we have to expect in the world to come. 
And here I shall just remark, that the authen- 
ticity and divine inspiration of Moses are 
established beyond a doubt, and that no 
learned man can possibly deny their authority. 
Over all nations, even among the savages of 
America, cut out as it were from the eastern 
world, there are traditions extant of the flood, 
of Noah, Moses, and other patriarchs, by 
names which come so near the proper ones, as 
to remove all doubt of their identity. You 
know mankind is continually increasing in 
number ; and consequently, if you make a 
calculation backwards, the numbers must 
continue lessening and lessening, until you 
come to a point where there was only one 
man. Well, according to the most probable 
calculation, this point will be found to be 
about 5,800 years back, viz. the time of the 
creation making allowance for the flood. 
Moreover, there are appearances upon the 
surface of the globe, which denote the manner 
in which it was founded, and the process thus 
developed will be found to agree very exactly 
with the figurative account of Moses. — (Of 
this I shall treat in a subsequent letter.) — Ad- 
mitting then, that the books of the Penta- 
teuch were written by divine inspiration, we 
see laid before us the whole history of our 
race, and, including the Prophets, and the New 
Testament, the whole scheme of our future 
existence: we learn, in the first place, that 
God created man in a state of perfect happi- 
ness, that he was placed in the midst of every 
thing that could delight the eye, or fascinate 
the mind, and that he had only one command 
imposed upon him, which he was to keep un. 
der the penalty of death. This command God 
has been pleased to cover to our eyes with 
impenetrable obscurity. Moses, in the figura- 
tive language of the East, calls it eating the 
fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and 
Evil. But this we can understand, that man 
rebelled against the command of his Maker, 
and plunged himself by that crime from a 
state of bliss to a state of sorrow, and in the 
end, of death.— By death here is meant, the 
exclusion of the soul from future happiness. 
It followed, that if Adam fell from bliss, his 
posterity must fall, for the fruit must be like 
the parent stock ; and a man made as it were 
dead, must likewise bring forth children un- 
der the same curse.— Evil cannot beget good. 



14 



H. K. WHITE'S 



But the benign Father of the universe had 
pity upon Adam and his posterity, and, know- 
ing the frailty of our nature, he did not wish 
to assume the whole terrors of his just ven- 
geance. Still God is a being who is infinitely 
just, as well as infinitely merciful, and there- 
fore his decrees are not to be dispensed with, 
and his offended justice must have expiation. 
The case of mankind was deplorable ; — my- 
riads yet unborn were implicated by the crime 
of their common progenitor in general ruin. 
But the mercy of God prevailed, and Jesus 
Christ, the Messias, of whom all ages talked 
before he came down amongst men, offered 
himself up as an atonement for man's crimes. 
— The Son of God himself, infinite in mercy, 
offered to take up the human form, to undergo 
the severest pains of human life, and the 
severest pangs of death ; he offered to lie un- 
der the power of the grave for a certain 
period, and, in a word, to sustain all the 
punishment of our primitive disobedience in 
the stead of man. The atonement was in- 
finite ; because God's justice was infinite ; 
and nothing but such an atonement could 
have saved the fallen race. 

The death of Christ then takes away the 
stain of original sin, and gives man at least 
the power of attaining eternal bliss. Still our 
salvation is conditional, and we have certain 
requisitions to comply with ere we can be se- 
cure of heaven. — The next question then is, 
What are the conditions on which we are to 
be saved ? The word of God here comes in 
again in elucidation of our duty: the chief 
point insisted upon is, that we should keep 
God's Law contained in the Ten Command- 
ments ; but as the omission or breach of one 
article of the twelve tables is a crime just of as 
great magnitude as the original sin, and en- 
tails the penalty on us as much as if we had 
infringed the whole, God, seeing our frailty, 
provided a means of effecting our salvation, in 
which nothing should be required of us but 
reliance on his truth. — God sent the Saviour to 
bear the weight of our sins ; he, therefore, re- 
quires us to believe implicitly, that through 
his blood we shall be accepted. This is the 
succedaneum which he imposed in lieu of the 
observance of the moral law. Faith ! Be- 
lieve, and ye shall be saved.— He requires 
from us to throw ourselves upon the Redeem- 
er, to look for acceptance through him alone, 
to regard ourselves as depraved, debased, 
fallen creatures, who can do nothing worthy 
in his sight, and who only hope for mercy 
through the Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. 
Faith is the foundation-stone ; Faith is the 
superstructure ; Faith is all in all — " By 
Faith are ye saved ; by Faitb are ye justified." 



How easy, my dear Neville, are the con- 
ditions God imposes upon us ! He only com- 
mands us to feel the tie of common gratitude, 
to trust in the mediation of his Son, and all 
shall be forgiven us. And shall our pride, 
our deluded imaginations, our false philo- 
sophy, interfere to blind our eyes to the 
beauties of so benevolent, so benign a system? 
— Or shall earthly pleasures engross all our 
thoughts, nor leave space for a care for our 
souls? — God forbid. As for Faith, if our 
hearts are hardened, and we cannot feel that 
implicit, that fervent belief, which the Scrip- 
ture requires, let us pray to God, that he 
will send his Holy Spirit down upon us, that 
he will enlighten our understanding with the 
knowledge of that truth which is too vast, too 
sublime for human understandings, unassist- 
ed by Divine Grace, to comprehend. 

I have here drawn a hasty outline of the 
gospel-plan of salvation. In a future letter I 
shall endeavour to fill it up. At present I 
shall only say, think on these things! — They 
are of moment inconceivable. — Read your 
Bible, in order to confirm yourself in these 
sublime truths, and pray to God to sanctify to 
you the instructions it contains. At present 
I would turn your attention, exclusively, to 
the New Testament. Read also the book 
which accompanies this letter ; — it is by the 
great Locke, and will serve to show you what 
so illustrious a philosopher thought of Reve- 
lation. 



TO MR. R. A 



Nottingham, May 7th, 1804. 



DEAR ROBERT, 



You don't know how I long to hear how 
your declamation was received, and " all 
about it," as we say in these parts. I hope to 
see it, when I see its author and pronouncer. 
Themistocles, no doubt, received due praise 
from you for his valour and subtlety; but I 
trust you poured down a torrent of eloquent 
indignation upon the ruling principles of his 
actions and the motive of his conduct, while 
you exalted the mild and unassuming virtues 
of his more amiable rival. The object of The- 
mistocles was the aggrandisement of himself, 
that of Aristides the welfare and prosperity of 



LETTERS. 



15 



the state. The one endeavoured to swell the 
glory of his country ; the other to promote its 
security, external and internal, foreign and do- 
mestic. W hile you estimated the services which 
Themistocles rendered to the state, in opposi- 
tion to those of Aristides, you of course remem- 
bered that the former had the largest scope for 
action, and that he influenced his countrymen 
to fall into all his plans, while they banished 
his competitor, not by his superior wisdom or 
goodness, but by those intrigues and factious 
artifices which Aristides would have disdain- 
ed. Themistocles certainly did use bad means 
to a desirable end : and if we may assume it as 
an axiom, that Providence will forward the 
designs of a good sooner than those of a bad 
man ; whatever inequality of abilities there 
may be between the two characters, it will 
follow that, had Athens remained under the 
guidance of Aristides, it would have been 
better for her. The difference between The- 
mistocles and Aristides seems to me to be this : 
That the former was a wise and a fortunate 
man ; and that the latter, though he had 
equal wisdom, had not equal good fortune. 
We may admire the heroic qualities and the 
crafty policy of the one, but to the temperate 
and disinterested patriotism, the good and 
virtuous dispositions of the other, we can 
alone give the meed of heart-felt praise. 

I only mean by this, that we must not infer 
Themistocles to have been the better or the 
greater man, because he rendered more es- 
sential services to the state than Aristides, 
nor even that his system was the most judi- 
cious, — but only, that, by decision of charac- 
ter, and by good fortune, his measures suc- 
ceeded best. 



The rules of composition are, in my opinion, 
very few. If we have a mature acquaintance 
with our subject, there is little fear of our ex- 
pressing it as we ought, provided we have had 
some little experience in writing. The first 
thing to be aimed at is perspicuity. Tliat is 
the great point, which, once attained, will 
make all other obstacles smooth to us. In 
order to write perspicuously, we should have 
a perfect knowledge of the topic on which we 
are about to treat, in all its bearings and de- 
pendencies. We should think well before- 
hand what will be the clearest method of con- 
veying the drift of our design. This is similar 
to what the painters call the massing, or get- 
ting the effect of the more prominent lights 
and shades by broad dashes of the pencil. 
When our thesis is well arranged in our 



mind, and we have predisposed our argu- 
ments, reasonings, and illustrations, so as they 
shall all conduce to the object in view, in re- 
gular sequence and gradation, we may sit 
down and express our ideas in as clear a man- 
ner as we can, always using such words as are 
most suited to our purpose ; and when twu 
modes of expression, equally luminous, present 
themselves, selecting that which is the most 
harmonious and elegant. 

It sometimes happens that writers, in aim- 
ing at perspicuity, overreach themselves, by 
employing too many words, and perplex the 
mind by a multiplicity of illustrations. This 
is a very fatal error. Circumlocution seldom 
conduces to plainness ; and you may take it 
as a maxim, that, when once an idea is clearly 
expressed, every additional stroke will only 
confuse the mind, and diminish the effect. 

When you have once learned to express 
yourself with clearness and propriety, you will 
soon arrive at elegance. Every thing else, in 
fact, will follow as of couise. But I warn you 
not to invert the order of things, and be pay- 
ing your addresses to the Graces, when you 
ought to be studying perspicuity. Young 
writers, in general, are too solicitous to round 
off their periods, and regulate the cadences of 
their style. Hence the feeble pleonasms and 
idle repetitions which deform their pages. If 
you would have your compositions vigorous, 
and masculine in their tone, let every word 
tell ; and when you detect yourself polishing 
off a sentence with expletives, regard yourself 
in exactly the same predicament with a poet 
who should eke out the measure of his verses 
with titum, titom, tee, Sir." 

So much for style 



TO MR. R. A- 



Nottingham, 9th May, 1804 
MY DEAR FRIEND 

* * » » 

I have not spoken as yet to Messrs. Cold- 
ham and Enfield. Your injunction to suspend 
so doing, has left me in a state of mind, which, 
I think, I am blameable for indulging, but 
which is indescribably painful. I had no 
sleep last night, partly from anxiety, and part- 
ly from the effects of a low fever, which has 



16 



preyed on my nerves for the last six or seven 
days. I am afraid, Robert, my religion is very 
superficial. 1 ought not to feel this distrust 
of God's providence. Should I now be pre- 
vented from going to college, 1 shall regard it 
as a just punishment for my want of faith. 

I conclude Mr. Martyn has failed in pro- 
curing the aid he expected ? Is it so ? 



On these contingencies, Robert, you must 
know from my peculiar situation, I shall never 
be able to get to college. My mother, at all 
times averse, has lately been pressed by one 
of the deacons of Castlegate Meeting, to pre- 
vail on me to go to Dr. Williams. This idea 
now fills her head, and she would feel no small 
degree of pleasure in the failure of my resour- 
ces for college. Besides this, her natural 
anxiety for my welfare will never allow her to 
permit me to go to the university depending 
almost entirely on herself, knowing not only 
the inadequacy, but the great uncertainty, of 
her aid. Coldham and Enfield must likewise 
be satisfied that my way is clear : 1 tremble, I 
almost despair. A variety of contending 
emotions, which I cannot particularize, agitate 
my mind. I tremble lest I should have mis- 
taken my call : these are solemn warnings : — 
but no — I cannot entertain the thought. To 
the ministry I am devoted I believe, by God ; 
in what way must be left to his providence. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



H. K. WHITE'S 

I have been oo much exhausted with matho 



Nottingham, June, 1804b. 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



In answer to your question, whether the 
Sizars have any duties to perform, I answer, 
No. Somebody, perhaps, has been hinting that 
there are servile offices to be performed by 
Sizars. It is a common opinion, but perfectly 
erroneous. The Oxford servitors, I believe, 
have many unpleasant duties ; bat the Sizars 
at Cambridge only differ from the rest in 
name. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

Nottingham, June, 15th, 1804. 
MY DEAR BEN, 

I do not sit down to write you a long letter, for 



matics to have much vigour of mind left ; my 
lines will therefore be wider than they are wont 
to be, and 1 shall, for once, be obliged to dif- 
fuse a little matter over a broad surface. For a 
consolatory letter I trust you have little need, 
as by this time you have no doubt learned to 
meet with calmness, those temporary privations 
and inconveniencies which, in this life, we 
must expect, and therefore should be prepared 
to encounter. 



This is true — this is Christian philosophy : it 
is a philosophy in which we must all, sooner 
or later, be instituted, and which, if you sted- 
fastly persist in seeking, I am sure God will 
assist you to your manifest comfort and peace. 

There are sorrows, and there are misfortunes 
which bow down the spirit beyond the aid of 
all human comfort. Of these, I know, my 
dear Ben, you have had more than common 
experience; but while the cup of life doe? 
overflow with draughts of such extreme asper- 
ity, we ought to fortify ourselves against 
lesser evils, as unimportant to man, who has 
much heavier woes to expect, and to the 
Christian, whose joys are laid beyond the 
verge of mortal existence. There are afflic- 
tions, there are privations, where death and 
hopes irrecoverably blasted leave no pros- 
pect of retrieval ; when I would no more say 
to the mourner, " Man, wherefore weepest 
thou ?" than I would ask the winds why they 
blew, or the tempest why it raged. Sorrows 
like these are sacred ; but the inferior trou- 
bles of partial separation vexatious occupation, 
and opposing current of human affairs are 
such as ought not, at least immoderately, to 
affect a Christian, but rather ought to be con- 
templated as the necessary accidents of life, 
and disregarded while their pains are more 
sensibly felt. 

Do not think, I beseech you, my dear Ben, 
that I wish to represent your sorrows as light 
or trivial ; I know they are not light ; 1 know 
they are not trivial ; but I wish to induce you 
to summon up the man within you ; and while 
those unhappy troubles, which you cannot 
alleviate, must continue to torment you, I 
would exhort you to rise superior to the 
crosses of life, and show yourself a genuine 
disciple of Jesus Christ, in the endurance of 
evil without repining, or unavailable lamen- 
tations. 

Blest as you are with the good testimony of 



an approving conscience, and happy in an in- 
timate communion with the all-pure and all- 
merciful God, these trifling concerns ought 
not to molest you ; nay, were the tide of ad- 
versity to turn strong against you, even were 
your friends to forsake you, and abject poverty 
to stare you in the face, you ought to be abun- 
dantly thankful to God for his mercies to you ; 
you ought to consider yourself still as rich, 
yea, to look around you, and say, I am far hap- 
pier than the sons of men. 

This is a system of philosophy which, for 
myself, I shall not only preach, but practise. 
We are here for nobler purposes than to waste j 
the fleeting moments of our lives in lamenta- | 
tions and wailings over troubles, which, in ! 
their widest extent, do but affect the present I 
state, and which, perhaps, only regard our I 
personal ease and prosperity. Make me an j 
outcast — a beggar ; place me a bare-footed I 
pilgrim on the top of the Alps or the Pyrenees, j 
and I should have wherewithal to sustain the ! 
spirit within me, in the reflection that all this was 
but as for a moment, and that a period would 
come when wrong, and injury, and trouble 
should be no more. Are we to be so utterly 
enslaved by habit and association, that we 
shall spend our lives in anxiety and bitter 
care, only that we may find a covering for our 
bodies, or the means of assuaging hunger? 
for what else is an anxiety after the world ? 
Or are even the followers of Christ themselves 
to be infected with the inane, the childish 
desire of heaping together wealth? Were a 
man, in the way of making a large fortune, to 
take up his hat and stick, and say, " I am 
useless here, and unhappy ; I will go and 
abide with the Gentoo or the Paraguay, 
where I shall be happy and useful," he would 
be laughed at; but I say he would prove him- 
self a more reasonable and virtuous man, than 
him who binds himself down to a business 
which he dislikes, because it would be account- 
ed strange, or foolish, to abandon so good a 
concern, and who heaps up wealth, for which 
he has little relish, because the world accounts 
it policy. 

I will refrain from pursuing this tone of 
reasoning. I know the weakness of human 
nature, and 1 know that we may argue with a 
deal of force, to show the folly of grief, when 
we ourselves are its passive victims. But 
whether strength of mind prevail with you, or 
•whether you still indulge in melancholy bod- 
ings and repinings, I am still your friend, nay, 
your sympathizing friend. Hard and callous, 
and " unfeeling" as T may seem, I have a 
heart for my ever dear Benjamin. 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



LETTERS. 

TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Wilford, near Nottingham, 



17 



1804 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



I now write to you from a little cottage at 
Wilford, where 1 have taken a room for a 
fortnight, as well for the benefit of my health, 
as for the advantage of uninterrupted study. 
I live in a homely house, in a homely style, but 
am well occupied, and perfectly at my ease. 

And now, my Dear Brother, I must sincere- 
ly beg pardon for all those manifold neglects 
of which I cannot but accuse myself towards 
you. When I recollect innumerable requests 
in your letters, which I have not noticed, and 
many enquiries I have not satisfied, I almost 
feel afraid that you will imagine I no longer 
regard your letters with brotherly fondness, 
and that you will cease to exercise towards 
me your wonted confidence and friendship. 
Indeed, you may take my word, they have 
arisen from my peculiar circumstances, and 
not from any unconcern or disregard of your 
wishes. I am now bringing my affairs (laugh 
not at the word) into some regularity, after all 
the hurry and confusion in which they have 
been plunged, by the distraction of mind at- 
tending my publication, and the projected 
change of my destination in life. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Wilford, near Nottingham, lfc04. 

DEAR NEVILLE, 



I have run very much on the wrong side of 
the post here ; for having sent copies round to 
such persons as had given me in their names, 
as subscribers, with compliments, they have 
placed them to the account of presents ! 



And now, my dear Neville, I must give you 
the most ingenious specimen of the invention of 
petty envy you perhaps ever heard of. When 
Addison produced " Cato," it was currently 
received, that he had bought it of a vicar for 
401. The Nottingham gentry, knowing me 
too poor to buy my poems, thought they could 
do no better than place it to the account of 
family affection, and,lo ! Mrs. Smith is become 



18 H. K. WHITE'S 

the sole author, who has made use of her 
brother's name as a feint ! I heard of this re- 
port first covertly : it was said that Mrs. 
Smith was the principal writer : next it was 
said that I was the author of one of the in- 
ferior smaller pieces only, (" My Study ;") 
and, lastly, on mentioning the circumstances 

to Mr. A , he confessed that he had heard 

several times that my " sister was the sole 
quill-driver of the family, and that master 
Henry, in particular, was rather shallow," 
but that he had refrained from telling me, be- 
cause he thought it would vex me. Now, as to 
the vexing me, it only has afforded me a hearty 
laugh. I sent my compliments to one great 
lady, whom I heard propagating this ridi- 
culous report, and congratulated her on her 
ingenuity, telling her, as a great secret, that 
neither my sister or myself had any claim to 
any of the poems, for the right author was 
the Great Mogul's cousin-german. The best 
part of the story is, that my good friend, Benj. 
Maddock, found means to get me to write 
verses extempore, to prove whether I could 
tag rhymes or not, which, it seems he 
doubted. 



Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, 
That short quick sigh— their sad responses give. 

And canst thou rob a Poet of his song ; 

Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise ? 
Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long j 

Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays 
While yet he lives — for to his merits just, 

Though future ages join, his fame to rai6e, 
Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust ? 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 



Nottingham, 7th July, 1804. 



MY DEAR BEN, 



VERSES REFERRED TO IN THE FOREGOING LETTER. 

THOU base repiner at another's joy, 

Whose eye turn's green at merit not thine own, 
Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, 
And find on meaner climes a fitter throno. 
Away, away, it shall not be, 
Thou shalt not dare defile our plains ; 
The truly generous heart disdains 
Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he 
Joys at another's joy, and smiles at others' jollity. 

Triumphant monster ! though thy schemes succeed— 

Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, 
Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, 

Thy happy victim will emerge to light ; 
When o'er his head in silence that reposes, 

Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear ; 
Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, 

Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe ; 
Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all 
Will curee the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall. 



YET, ah ! thy arrows are too keen, too sure : 

Couldst thou not pitch upon another prey ? 
Alas 1 in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, 

Who only boast what thou wouldst take away ; 
See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting, 

O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp ; 
While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting, 

Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. 
Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd j 

Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion live ? 



The real wants of life are few ; the support 
of the body, simply, is no expensive matter ; 
and as we are not mad upon silks and satins, 
the covering of it will not be more costly. 
The only superfluity I should covet would be 
books, but I have learned how to abridge that 
pleasure ; and having sold the flower of my 
library for the amazing sum of Six Guineas, I 
mean to try whether meditation will not supply 
the place of general reading, and probably, by 
the time I am poor and needy, I shall look 
upon a large library like a fashionable ward- 
robe, goodly and pleasant, but as to the real 
utility, indifferent. 

So much for Stoicism, and now for Mona- 
chism — I shall never, never marry ! It can- 
not, must not be. As to affections, mine are 
already engaged as much as they will ever be, 
and this is one reason why I believe my life 
will be a life of celibacy. I pray to God that it 
may be so, and that I may be happy in that 
state. 1 love too ardently to make love in- 
nocent, and therefore I say farewell to it. 
Besides, I have another inducement, I can- 
not introduce a woman into poverty for my 
love's sake, nor could I well bear to see 
such a one as I must marry struggling 
with narrow circumstances, and sighing for 
the fortunes of her children. No, I say, 
forbear ! and may the example of St. Gregory 
of Naz. and St Basil, support me. 

All friends are well, except your humble 
scribe, who has got a little too much into his 
old way since your departure. Studying and 
musing, and dreaming of every thing but his 
health ; still amid all his studying, musings, 
and dreams, 

Your true friend and brother, 

H. K. WHITE. 



TO THE EDITOR. 



Nottingham, July 9th, 1804. 



LETTERS, 19 

or at some future opportunity to finish. The 
subject is the death of Christ. I have no 
friend whose opinion is at all to be relied on, 
to whom I could submit it, and, perhaps, after 
all, it may be absolutely worthless. 



I can now inform you, that I have reason 
to believe my way through college is clear 
before me. From what source I know not ; 
but through the hands of Mr. Simeon I am 
provided with 301. per annum ; and while 
things go on so prosperously as they do now, 
I can command 201. or 301. more from my 
friends, and this, in all probability, until I 
take my degree. The friends to whom I 
allude are my mother and brother. 

My mother has, for these five years past, 
kept a boarding school in Nottingham : and, 
so long as her school continues in its present 
state, she can supply me with 151. or 201. per 
annum, without inconvenience ; but should 
she die, (and her health is, I fear, but infirm,) 
that resource will altogether fail. Still, I think, 
my prospect is so good as to preclude any 
anxiety on my part ; and perhaps my income 
will be more than adequate to my wants, as I 
shall be a Sizar of St. John's where the col- 
lege emoluments are more than commonly 
large. 

In this situation of my affairs, you will per- 
haps agree with me in thinking that a sub- 
scription for a volume of poems will not be ne- 
cessary ; and, certainly, that measure is one 
which will be better avoided, if it may be. 
I have lately looked over what poems I have 
by me in manuscript, and find them more 
numerous than I expected ; but many of them 
would perhaps be styled mopish and maukish, 
and even misanthropic, in the language of the 
world ; though, from the latter sentiment, I 
am sure I can say, no one is more opposite 
than I am. These poems, therefore, will never 
see the light, as, from a teacher of that word 
which gives all strength to the feeble, more 
fortitude and Christian philosophy may, with 
justice, be expected than they display. The 
remainder of my verses would not possess any 
great interest : mere description is often 
mere nonsense : and I have acquired a strange 
habit, whenever I do point out a train of moral 
sentiment from the contemplation of a pic- 
ture, to give it a gloomy and querulous cast, 
when there is nothing in the occasion but 
what ought to inspire joy and gratitude. 1 
have one poem, however, of some length, 
which I shall preserve ; and I have another 
of considerable magnitude in design, but of 
which only a part is written, which I am fairly 
at a loss whether to commit to the flames, 



With regard to that part of my provision 
which is derived from my unknown friend, it 
is of course conditional : and as it is not a 
provision for a poet, but for a candidate for 
orders, I believe it is expected, and indeed it 
has been hinted as a thing advisable, that I 
should barter the muses for mathematics, and 
abstain from writing verses at least until I 
take my degree. If I find that all my time 
will be requisite, in order to prepare for the 
important office I am destined to fill, I shall 
certainly do my duty, however severely it 
may cost me: but if I find I may lawfully 
and conscientiously relax myself at intervals, 
with those delightful reveries which have 
hitherto formed the chief pleasure of my life, 
I shall, without scruple, indulge myself in 
them. 

I know the pursuit of Truth is a much more 
important business than the exercise of the 
imagination ; and amid all the quaintness and 
stiff method of the mathematicians, I can even 
discover a source of chaste and exalted plea- 
sure. To their severe but salutary discipline, 
I must now " subdue the vivid shapings of 
my youth ;" and though I shall cast many a 
fond lingering look to Fancy's more alluring 
paths, yet I shall be repaid by the anticipation 
of days, when I may enjoy the sweet satisfaction 
of being useful, in no ordinary degree, to my 
fellow-mortals. 



TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 

Nottingham, 24th July, 1804 
DEAR SIR, 



I think Mr. Moore's love poems are infam- 
ous, because they subvert the first great ob- 
ject of poetry — the encouragement of the vir- 
tuous and the noble, and metamorphose nutri- 
| tious aliment into poison. I think the muses 
j are degraded when they are made the hand- 
, maids of sensuality, and the bawds of a 
I brothel. 

Perhaps it may be the opinion of a young 



20 



man, but I think too, tbe old system of heroic 
attachment, with all its attendant notions of 
honour and spotlessness, was, in the end, cal- 
culated to promote tbe interests of the human 
race ; for though it produced a temporary 
nlienation of mind, perhaps bordering on in- 
sanity, yet with the very extravagance and 
madness of the sentiments, there were inwov- 
en certain imperious principles of virtue and 
generosity, which would probably remain after 
time had evaporated the heat of passion, and 
sobered the luxuriance of a romantic imagina- 
tion. I think, therefore, a man of song is 
rendering the community a service when he dis- 
plays the ardour of manly affection in a pleas- 
ing light; but certainly we need no incentives 
to the irregular gratification of our appetites, 
and I should think it a proper punishment for 
the poet who holds forth the allurements of 
illicit pleasures in amiable and seductive 
colours, should his wife, his sister, or his 
child fall a victim to the licentiousness he 
has been instrumental in diffusing. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 



H. K. WHITE'S 

am so much occupied with them, that I am 



Winteringham, August 3, 1604. 



MY DEAR BEN, 



I am all anxiety to learn the issue of your 
proposal to your father. Surely it will pro- 
ceed ; surely a plan laid out with such fair 
prospects of happiness to you, as well as me, 
will not be frustrated. Write to me the moment 
you have any information on the subject. 

1 think we shall be happy together at Cam- 
bridge ; and in the ardent pursuit of Christian 
knowledge, and Christian virtue, we shall be 
doubly united. We were before friends ; 
now, I hope, likely to be still more emphati- 
cally so. But I must not anticipate. 

I left Nottingham without seeing my brother 
Neville, who arrived there two days after me. 
This is a circumstance which I much regret ; 
but I hope he will come this way when he 
goes, according to his intention, to a water- 
ing place. Neville has been a good brother 
to me, and there are not many things which 
would give me more pleasure than, after so 
long a separation, to see him again. I dare 
not hope that I shall meet you and him to- 
gether in October, at Nottingham. 

My days flow on here in an even tenor. 
They are, indeed, studious days, for my 
ttudiea seem to multiply on my hands, and I 



becoming a mere bookworm, running over the 
rules of Greek versification in my walks, in- 
stead of expatiating on the beauties of the sur- 
rounding scenery. Winteringham, is, indeed, 
now a delightful place : the trees are in full 
verdure, the crops are browning the fields, 
and my former walks are become dry under 
foot, which 1 have never known them to be 
before. The opening vista, from our church- 
yard over the Humber, to the hills, and reced- 
ing vales of Yorkshire, assumes a thousand 
new aspects. I sometimes watch it at evening, 
when the sun is just gilding the summits of 
the hills, and the lowlands are beginning to 
take a browner hue. The showers partially 
falling in the distance, while all is serene 
above me ; the swelling sail rapidly falling 
down the river ; and, not least of all, the 
villages, woods, and villas on the opposite 
bank, sometimes render this scene quite en- 
chanting to me ; and it is no contemptible 
relaxation, after a man has been puzzling his 
brains over the intricacies of Greek choruses 
all the day, to come out and unbend his mind 
with careless thought and negligent fancies, 
while he refreshes his body with the fresh air 
of the country. 

I wish you to have a taste of these pleasures 
with me ; and if ever I should live to be 
blessed with a quiet parsonage, and that great 
object of my ambition, a garden, I have no 
doubt but we shall be, for some short in- 
tervals, at least, two quiet, contented bodies. 
These will be our relaxations ; our business 
will be of a nobler kind. Let us vigilantly 
fortify ourselves against the exigencies of the 
serious appointment we are, with God's bless- 
ing, to fulfil ; and if we go into the church 
prepared to do our duty, there is every reason- 
able prospect that our labours will be blessed, 
and that we shall be blessed in them. As 
your habits generally have been averse to 
what is called close application, it will be too 
much for your strength, as well as unadvisable 
in other points of view, to study very in- 
tensely ; but regularly you may, and must 
read; and depend upon it, a man will work 
more wonders by stated and constant applica- 
tion, than by unnatural and forced endea- 
vours. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

Nottingham, September, 1804. 
MY DEAR BEN, 

By the time you will open this letter, we 



LETTERS. 



21 



.hall have parted, God only knows whether 
ever to meet again. The chances and casual- 
ties of human life are such as to render it 
always questionable whether three months 
may not separate us for ever from an absent 
friend. 



For my part, I shall feel a vacuum when 
you are gone, which will not easily be filled 
up. I shall miss my only intimate friend— the 
companion of my walks— the interrupter of 
my evening studies. I shall return, in a great 
measure, to my old solitary habits. 1 cannot 
associate with * * nor yet with * * 
has no place in my affections, though he has 
in my esteem. It was to you alone I looked 
as my adopted brother, and (although, for 
reasons you may hereafter learn, 1 have not 
made you my perfect confidante) my comforter. 
— Heu mihi amice, Vale, longum Vale ! I hope 
you will sometimes think of me, and give me a 
portion in your prayers. 



Perhaps it may be that I am not formed for 
friendship, that I expect more than can ever 
be found. Time will tutor me ; I am a singular 
being under a common outside : I am a pro- 
found dissembler of my inward feelings, and 
necessity has taught me the art. I am long 
before 1 can unbosom to a friend, yet, I think, 
I am sincere in my friendship : you must not 
attribute this to any suspiciousness of nature, 
but must consider that I lived seventeen years 
my own confidante, my own friend, full of 
projects and strange thoughts, and confiding 
them to no one. I am habitually reserved, 
and habitually cautious in letting it be seen 
that I hide any thing. Towards you I would 
fain conquer these habits, and this is one step 
towards effecting the conquest. 

I am not well, Ben, to-night, as my hand- 
writing and style will show ; I have rambled 
on, however, to some length; my letter may 
serve to beguile a few moments on your way. 
I must say good bye to you, and may God 
bless you, and preserve you, and be your 
guide and director for ever ! Remember he is 
always with you ; remember that in him you 
have a comforter in every gloom. In your 
wakeful nights, when you have not me to talk 
to, his ear will be bent down on your pillow ; 
what better bosom friend has a man than the 
merciful and benignant Father of all ? Happy, 



thrice happy, are you in the privilege of his 
grace and acceptance. 

Dear Ben, 
I am your true friend, 
H. K. WHITE. 



TO MR. K. SWANN. 



High Pavement, October 4th, 1804. 



DEAR KIRKE, 



For your kind and very valuable present, I 
know not how to thank you. The Archbishop* 
has long been one of my most favourite 
divines ; and a complete set of his sermons 
really " sets me up." I hope I am able to 
appreciate the merits of such a collection, and 
I shall always value them apart from their 
merit, as a memento of friendship. 

I hope that, when our correspondence be- 
gins, it will neither be lax nor uninteresting ; 
and that, on both sides, it may be productive 
of something more than mere amusement. 

While we each strive to become wiser in 
those things wherein true wisdom is alone to 
be found, we may mutually contribute to each 
other's success, by the communication of our 
thoughts : and that we may both become pro- 
ficients in that amiable philosophy which 
makes us happier by rendering us better ; 
that philosophy which alone makes us wise 
unto salvation, is the prayer of, 
Dear Kirke, 
Your sincere friend, 
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWORTH. 



Winteringham, — - 1804. 



AMICE DILECTE,t 



Puderet me infrequentias nostrarum lite- 
rarum, nisi hoc ex te pendere sentirem. Epis- 
tolas a te missas non prius accepi quam 
kalendis Decembris — res mihi acerba, ni- 
hilominus ad ferendum levior, dum me non 
tibi ex animo prorsus excidisse satis explor- 
atum est. 

* Tillotson. 

t This Letter was written when our author was but com- 
mencing his Classical Studies, and must therefore not be 
considered as a specimen of his Latinity. 



22 



H. K. WHITE'S 



Gavisus sum, e Iitteris tuis, aniico Roberto 
dicatis, cum audirem te operam et dedisse et 
daturum ad Graecam linguani etiamnura exco- 
lcndani cum viro omni doctrina erudito. — Satis 
scio te, illo duce, virum doctissimum et in 
optimarum artium studiis exquisitissimum 
futurum esse : haud tamen his facultatibus 
contentum, sed altiora petentem, nempe salu- 
tem humani generis et sancta verbi divini 
arcana. 

Vix jam, amice ! recreor e morbo, a, quo gra- 
viter aegrotavi : vix jam incipio membra lan- 
guore confecta in diem apertam trahere. 
Tactusarida manu febris, spatiosas trivi noctes 
lacrymis et gemitu. Vidi, cum in conspeetu 
mortis collocatus fuerim, vidi omnia clariora 
facta, intellexi me non fidem Christi satis ser- 
vasse, non, ut famulum Dei, fideliter vitam 
egisse. ^Egritudo multa prius celata patefacit. 
Hoc ipse sensi et omnes, sint sane religiosi, 
sint boni, idem sentient. Sed ego praecipue 
causam habui cur me afliixerim et summisso 
animo ad pedem crucis abjecenm. Imo vero 
et lacrymas copiose effudi et interdum conso- 
latio Sancti Spiritus turbinem animi placavit. 
Utinam vestigium hujus periculi semper in 
animo retineam ! 

Non dubito quiu tibi gratum erit audire de 
moribus et studiis nostris. Praeceptor nobis, 
nomine Grainger, non e collegio educatus 
fuit, attamen doctrina haud mediocris est, 
pietate eximius. Hypodidascalus fuit in schola 
viri istius docti et admodum venerandi Jose- 
phi Milner, qui eum dilexit atque honoravit. 
Mores jucundi et faciles sunt, urbanitate ac 
lepore suaviter conditi, quanquam interdum in 
vultutristisseveritasinest. Ergabonosmansu- 
etus, malis se durior gerit. — JEque fere est Pas- 
tor diligens, vir egregius, et praeceptor bonus. 
Cum isthoc legimus apud Graecos, Homerum 
et Domosthenem et Sanctas Scripturas, apud 
Latinos, Virgilium, Ciceronem et aliquando in 
ludo Terentium. Scribimus etiam Latine, et 
constructionis et elegantiae gratia; nihilominus 
(hac epistola teste) non opus est dicendi tibi 
quam paululum ego ipse proficio. In scriben- 
do Latine, praeter consuetudinem in lingua 
Anglicana, sum lentus, piger, ineptus. Verba 
stillant heu quam otiose, et quum tandem visa 
sint quam inelegantia ! Spero tamen usu 
atque animo diligenter adhibeudo deinde La- 
tinis sermonibus aliquam adipisci facilitatem, 
nunc fere oportet me contentum esse cupire 
et laborare, paululum potiundo, magna moli- 
endo. 

Intelligis, procul dubio, nos vicum incolere 
Winteringhamiensis, ripis situm Humberi 



fluminis, sed nondum forsan sentias locum esse 
agrestem, fluviis, collibus, arvis, omni decore 
pervenustum. Domus nostra Templo Dei 
adjacet; a tergo sunt dulces horti et terrenus 
agger arboribus crebre septus, quo deambulare 
solemus. Circumcirca sunt rurales pagi 
quibus saepe cum otium agamus, post pran- 
dium imus. Est villa, nomine Whittonia, ubi 
a. celsa. rupe videre potes flumen Trentii vasto 
Humbero influens, et paulo altius Oosem flu- 
men. 

Infra sub opaca saxa fons est, cui potestas 
inest in lapidem materias alienas convertendi ; 
ab altissima rupe labitur in littus, museum, 
conchas et fragiliores ramos arborum in lapi- 
dem transmutans. In prospectu domus mon- 
tes Eboracenses surgunt trans Humberum 
siti, sylvis et villis stipati, nunc solis radiis 
ridentes, nunc horridi nimbis ac procellis t 
"Vela navium ventis impleta ante fenestras 
satis longo intervallo prolabuntur : dum supra 
in aere procelso greges anserum vastae longo 
clamore volitant. Saepe in animo revolvo 
verba ista Homeri : 

Xr,v3l> if l yt°ccvcov, ♦) xvxvaiv heu>.ixoi>upuii, 
'Ao-'in Iv Xitf/Mn KoriJtrTpiau a.fx.$) pssS-gct, 
EvOm not) IvOk irorSvTtx.1 a.yx.Woiu.iva.i irripvynrfi, 
KXccyyy,dov rt£ox<x.Oi&WTw, apa, $a,?{t Se rt Xup.6»' 
' di tZv i8viu troXXu. viuv a.ito xcc) xXitftc&uv 
'Es xibicv ■STpo^mio 'Hxtx.^a.^piOt' etc. 



Vale. Dum vitales auras carpam, 
Tuus, 

H. K. WHITE. 



TO MR. K, SWANN. 



Winteringham, 20tli Oct. 180i. 



DEAR KIRKE, 



We are safely arrived, and comfortably set. 
tied, in the parsonage of Winteringham. The 
house is most delightfully situated close by 
the church, at a distance from the village, and 
with delightful gardens behind, and the Hum- 
ber before. The family is very agreeable, and 
the style in which we live is very superior. 
Our tutor is not only a learned man, but the 
best pastor, and most pleasing domestic man, 
I ever met with. You will be glad to hear we 
are thus charmingly situated. I have reason 
to thank God for his goodness in leading me 
to so peaceful and happy a situation. 






LETTERS, 



23 



The year which now lies before me, I shall, 
with the blessing of God, if I am spared, em- 
ploy in very important pursuits; and I trust 
that I shall come away not only a wiser, but 
a better man. I have here nothing to interrupt 
me — no noise — no society to disturb, or avoca- 
tions to call me off, and if I do not make 
considerable improvements, I do not know 
when I shall. 

We have each our several duties to per- 
form ; and though God has been pleased to 
place us in very different walks of life, yet we 
may mutually assist each other by counsel, by 
admonition, and by prayer. My calling is of j 
a nature the most arduous and awful ; / need 
every assistance from above, and from my 
companions in the flesh ; and no advice will 
ever be esteemed lightly by me, which pro- 
ceeds from a servant of God, however trifling, 
or however ill expressed. If your immediate 
avocations be less momentous, and less con- 
nected with the world to come, your duty is 
not the less certain, or the more lightly to be 
attended to — you are placed in a situation 
wherein God expects from you according to 
your powers, as well as from me in mine : and 
there are various dark and occult temptations, 
of which you are little aware, but into which 
you may easily and imperceptibly fall, unless 
upheld by the arm of Almighty God. You 
stand in need, therefore, to exercise a constant 
reliance on the Holy Spirit, and its influences, 
and to watch narrowly your own heart, that 
it conceive no secret sin : for although your 
situation be not so dangerous, nor your duties 
so difficult, yet, as the masks which Satan 
assumes are various, you may still find cause 
for spiritual fear and sorrow, and occasion for 
trembling, lest you should not have exercised 
your talents in proportion to their extent. It 
is a valuable observation, that there is no 
resting-place in the spiritual progress — we 
must either go backward or forward, and 
when we are at a loss to know whether our 
motion be onward or retrograde, we may rest 
assured, that there is something wanting which 
must be supplied — some evil yet lurking in 
the heart, or some duty slightly performed. . 



tidings of salvation to fallen man ; to point 
out the way of eternal life ; to exhort, to 
cheer, and to support the suffering sinner: 
these are the glorious topics upon which we 
have to enlarge — and will these permit the 
tricks of oratory, or the studied beauties of 
eloquence? Shall truths and counsels like 
these be couched in terms which the poor and 
ignorant cannot comprehend ? — Let all elo- 
quent preachers beware, lest they fill anj 
man's ear with sounding words, when the$ 
should be feeding his soul with the bread of 
everlasting life ! Let them fear, lest, instead of 
honouring God, they honour themselves ! If 
any man ascend the pulpit with the intention 
of uttering a fine thing, he is committing a 
deadly sin. Remember, however, that there 
is a medium, and that vulgarity and meanness 
are cautiously to be shunned ; but while we 
speak with propriety and chastity, we cannot 
be too familiar or too plain. I do not intend 
to apply these remarks to Mr. * * individually, 
but to the manner of preaching here alluded 
to. If his manner be such as I have here de- 
scribed, the observations will also fit ; but, if 
it be otherwise, the remarks refer not to him, 
but to the style reprobated. 



I recommend to you, always before you be- 
gin to study, to pray to God to enlighten your 
understanding, and give you grace to behold 
all things through the medium of religion. 
This was always the practice in the old uni- 
versities, and, I believe, is the only way to 
profit by learning. 



You remember 1 heard Mr. * *, on the night 
previous to my departure ; 1 did not say much 
on his manner, but I thought it neat, and the 
sermon far better than I expected : but I must 
flot be understood to approve altogether of 
Mr. **'s preaching. I think, in particular, 
he has one great fault, that is elegance — he is 
aot sufficiently plain. Remember, we do not 
mount the pulpit to say fine things, or eloquent 
things ; we have there to proclaim the good 



I can now only say a few words to you, 
since our regular hour of retiring fast ap- 
proaches. 1 hope you are making progress 
in spiritual things, proportionably to your 
opportunities, and that you are sedulously 
endeavouring, not only to secure your own 
acceptation, but to impart the light of truth 
to those around you who still remain in dark- 
ness, 



Pray let me bear from you at your con- 
venience, and m brother will forward the 
letter ; and believe me, 

My dear Kirke, 
Your friend, and fellow-traveller in the 
Tearful sojourn of life, 
H. K. WHITE. 



24. 



H. K. WHITE'S 



TO HIS MOTHER. 



Winteringham, Dec, 16th, 1804. 
MY DEAR MOTHER, 

Since I wrote to you last I have been rather 
ill, having caught cold, which brought on a 
slight fever. Thanks to excellent nursing, I 
am now pretty much recovered, and only 
want strength to be perfectly re-established. 
Mr. Grainger is himself a very good physician, 
but when I grew worse, he deemed it neces- 
sary to send for a medical gentleman from 
Barton ; so that, in addition to my illness, I 
expect an apothecary's bill. This, however, 
will not be a very long one, as Mr. Grainger 
has chiefly supplied me with drugs. It is 
judged absolutely necessary that I should 
take wine, and that I should ride. It is with 
very great reluctance that I agree to incur 
these additional expenses, and I shall en- 
deavour to cut them off as soon as possible. 
Mr. and Mrs. Grainger have behaved like 
parents to me since I have been ill : four and 
five times in the night has Mr. G. come to see 
me ; and had I been at home, I could not have 
been treated with more tenderness and care. 
Mrs. Grainger has insisted on my drinking 
their wine, and was very angry when 1 made 
scruples ; but I cannot let them be at all this 
additional expense — in some way or other I 
must pay them, as the sum I now give, con- 
sidering the mode in which we are accom- 
modated, is very trifling. Mr. Grainger does 
not keep a horse, so that I shall be obliged to 
hire one ; but there will be no occasion for 
this for any length of time, as my strength 
seems to return as rapidly as it was rapidly 
reduced. Don't make yourself in the least 
uneasy about this, I pray, as I am quite re- 
covered, and not at all apprehensive of any 
consequences. I have no cough, nor anj 
symptom which might indicate an affection of 
tne lungs. I read very little at present. 

I thought it necessary to write to you on 
this subject now, as I feared you might have 
an exaggerated account from Mr. Almond's 
friends, and alarm yourself. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Winteringham, Dec. 27, 1804. 
MY DEAR BROTHER, 

I have been very much distressed at 



receipt of your letter, 



the 
accompanied with one 



from my mother, one from my sister, and from 
Mr. Dashwood, and Kirke Swann, all on the 
same subject ; and greatly as I feel for all the 
kindness and affection which has prompted 
these remonstrances, I am quite harassed with 
the idea that you should not have taken my 
letter as a plain account of my illness, without 
any wish to hide from you that I had been 
ill somewhat seriously, but that 1 was indeed 
better. 

I can now assure you, that I am perfectly 
recovered, and am as well as I have been for 
some time past. My sickness was merely a 
slight fever, rather of a nervous kind, brought 
on by a cold, and soon yielded to the proper 
treatment. Ido assure you, simply and plainly, 
that I am now as well as ever. 

With regard to study, I do assure you that 
Mr. Grainger will not suffer us to study at all 
hard ; our work at present is mere play. I am 
always in bed at ten o'clock, and take two 
walks in the day, besides riding, when the 
weather will permit. 

Under these circumstances, my dear brother 
may set his mind perfectly at ease. Even 
change of air sometimes occasions violent 
attacks, but they leave the patient better than 
they found him. 

I still continue to drink wine, though I am 
convinced there is no necessity for it. My 
appetite is amazingly large — much larger than 
when at Nottingham. 

I shall come to an arrangement with Mr. 
Grainger immediately, and I hope you will 
not write to him about it. If Mr. Eddy, the 
surgeon, thinks it at all necessary for me to 
do this constantly, I declare to you that I will ; 
but remember, if I should form a habit of this 
now, it may be a disadvantage to me when 
possibly circumstances may render it incon- 
venient — as when I am at college. 

My spirits are completely knocked up by 
the receipt of all the letters I have at one 
moment received. My mother got a gentle- 
man to mention it to Mr. Dashwood, and still 
representing that my illness was occasioned 
by study — a thing than which nothing can be 
more remote from the truth, as I have, from 
conscientious motives, given up hard study 
until I shall find my health better. 

I cannot write more, as I have the other 
letters to answer. I am going to write to Bar- 
ton, expressly to get advantage of the post for 
this day, in order that you may no longer give 



LETTERS. 

yourself a moment's uneasiness, where there 
is in reality no occasion. 
Give my affectionate love to James, 
And believe me. 
My dear Neville, 

Your truly affectionate Brother, 
H. K. WHITE. 



One thing I had forgot — you mention my 
pecuniary matters — you make me blush when 
you do so. You may rest assured that I have 
no wants of that kind, nor am likely to have 
at present. Your brotherly love and anxiety 
towards me have sunk deep into my heart ; 
and you may satisfy yourself with this, that 
whatever is necessary for my health shall not 
be spared, and that when I want the means 
of procuring these, I shall think it my duty 
to tell you so. 



TO HIS BROTHER JAMES. 

Midway between Winteringham and Hull, 
Jan. 11th, 1805. 

DEAR JAMES, 

You will not be surprised at the style of 
this letter, when I tell you it is written in the 
Winteriogham Packet, on a heap of flour 
bags surrounded by a drove of 14 pigs, who 
raise the most hideous roar every time the 
boat rolls. I write with a silver pen, and 
with a good deal of shaking, so you may 
expect very bad scribbling. I am now going 
to Hull, where 1 have a parcel to send to 
my mother, and I would not lose the oppor- 
tunity of writing. 

I am extremely glad that you are attentive 
to matters of such moment as are those of re- 
ligion ; and I hope you do not relax in your 
seriousness, but continue to pray that God 
will enable you to walk in the paths of 
righteousness, which alone lead to peace. 
He alone, my dear James, is able to give you 
a heart to delight in his service, and to set at 
nought the temptations of the world. It may 
seem to you, in the first beginning of your 
Christian progre s, that religion wears a very 
unpromising aspect, and that the gayeties, 
of the world are indeed very delicious ; but I 
assure you, from what 1 have myself experi- 
enced, that the pleasures of piety are infinitely 
more exquisite than those of fashion and of 
sensual pursuits. It is true, they are not so 
violent, or so intoxicating, (for they consist in 
one even tenor of mind, a lightness of heart, 
and sober cheerfulness, which none but those 



25 
who have experienced ^an conceive ;) but 
they leave no sting behind them ; they give 
pleasure on reflection, and will soothe the 
mind in the distant prospect. And who can 
say this of the world, or its enjoyments? 



Even those who seem to enter with the 
most spirit into the riotous and gaudy diver- 
sions of the world, are often known to confess 
that there is no real satisfaction in them ; that 
their gayety is often forced, when their hearts 
are heavy ; and that they envy those who 
have chosen the more humble but pleasant 
paths of religion and virtue. 

I am not at all particular as to the place of 
worship you may attend, so as it be under a 
serious preacher, and so as you attend regu- 
larly. I should think it a very good exercise 
for you, if you were to get a blank paper book, 
and were to write down in it any thing which 
may strike you in the sermons you hear on 
a Sunday ; this would improve your style of 
writing, and teach you to think on what you 
hear. Pray endeavour to carry this plan into 
execution : I am sure you will find it worth 
the trouble. You attend the church now and 
then, I conclude, and if you do, I should wish 
to direct your attention to our admirable 
liturgy, and avoid, if possible, remarking 
what may seem absurd in the manner it is 
repeated. 

I must not conceal from you that I am very 
sorry you do not attend some eminent minis- 
ter in the church, such as Mr. Cecil, or Mr. 
Pratt, or Mr. Crowther, in preference to the 
meeting : since 1 am convinced a man runs 
less danger of being misled, or of building on 
false foundations, in the establishment, than 
out, and this too for plain reasons : — Dissent- 
ers are apt to think they are religious, be- 
cause they are dissenters — " for," argue they, 
" if we had not a regard for religion, why 
should we leave the establishment at all ? 
The very act of leaving it shows we have a 
regard for religion, because we manifest an 
aversion to its abuses." Besides this, at the 
meeting-house you are not likely to hear plain 
and unwelcome truths so honestly told as in 
the church, where the minister is not so de 
pendent on his flock, and the prayers are so 
properly selected, that you will meet with pe- 
titions calculated for all your wants, bodily 
and spiritual, without being left at the mer- 
cy of the minister to pray for what and in 
what manner he likes. Remember these 
are not offered as reasons why you should 
always attend the church, but to put you in 
mind that there are advantages there whieh 
you should avail yourself of, instead of 
D 



26 



H. K. 



making invidious comparisons between the 
two institutions. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 



WHITE'S 

deal of talk. He is a pious man, and a great 
astronomer; but in manners and appearance, a 
complete artist. I rather think he is inclined 
to Hutchinsonian principles, and entertains no 
great reverence for Sir Isaac Newton. 



Winteringham, Jan. 31st, 1805. 



DEAR BEN, 



I have long been convinced of the truth of 
what you say, respecting the effects of close 
reading on a man's mind, in a religious point 
of view, and I am more and more convinced 
that literature is very rarely the source of 
satisfaction of mind to a Christian. I would 
wish you to steer clear of too abstracted and 
subtle a mode of thinking and reasoning, and 
you will so be happier than your friend. A 
relish for books will be a sweet source of 
amusement, and a salutary relaxation to you 
throughout life ; but let it not be more than a 
relish, if you value your own peace. I think, 
however, that you ought to strengthen your 
mind a little with logic, and for this purpose I 
would advise you to go through Euclid with 
sedulous and serious attention, and likewise to 
read Duncan through. You are too desultory a 
reader, and regard amusement too much : if you 
wish your reading in good earnest to amuse 
you when you are old, as well as now in your 
youth, you will take care to form a taste for 
substantial and sound authors, and will not 
be the less eager to study a work because it 
requires a little labour to understand it. 

After you have read Euclid, and amused 
yourself with Locke's sublime speculations, 
you will derive much pleasure from Butler's 
Analogy, without exception the most un- 
answerable demonstration of the folly of in- 
fidelity that the world ever saw. 

Books like these will give you more strength 
of mind, and consistent firmness, than either 
you or I now possess ; while on the other 
hand, the effeminate Panada of Magazines, 
Tales, and the tribe of penny-catching pam- 
phlets, of which desultory readers are so fond, 
only tend to enervate the mind, and inca- 
pacitate it for every species of manly exertion. 



I continue to be better in health, although 
the weather is a great obstacle to my taking 
a proper proportion of exercise. I have had a 
trip to Hull of late, and saw the famous 
painter R there, with whom I had a good 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

Winteringham, 1st March, 1805. 
MY DEAR BEN, 



I hope and trust that you have at length ar- 
rived at that happy temperament of disposi- 
tion, that although you have much cause of 
sadness within, you are yet willing to be 
amused with the variegated scenes around 
you, and to join, when occasions present them- 
selves, in innocent mirth. Thus, in the course 
of your peregrinations, occurrences must con- 
tinually arise, which, to a mind willing to 
make the best of every thing, will afford 
amusement of the chastest kind. Men and 
manners are a never-failing source of wonder 
and surprise, as they present themselves in 
their various phases. We may very innocently 
laugh at the brogue of a Somerset peasant — 
<and I should think that person both cynical 
and surly, who could pass by a group of laugh- 
ing children, without participating in. their 
delight, and joining in their laugh. It is a 
truth most undeniable, and most melancholy, 
that there is too much in human life which 
extorts tears and groans, rather than smiles. 
This, however, is equally certain, that our 
giving way to unremitting sadness on these 
accounts, so far from ameliorating the condi- 
tion of mortality, only adds to the aggregate 
of human misery, and throws a gloom over 
those moments when a ray of light is permit- 
ted to visit the dark valley of life, and the 
heart ought to be making the best of its fleeting 
happiness. Landscape, too, ought to be a 
source of delight to you ; fine buildings, ob- 
jects of nature, and a thousand things which 
it would be tedious to name. I should call 
the man, who could survey such things as 
these without being affected with pleasure, 
either a very weak-minded and foolish person, 
or one of no mind at all. To be always 
sad, and always pondering on internal 
griefs, is what I call utter selfishness : I 
would not give two-pence for a being who is 
locked up in his own sufferings, and whose 
heart cannot respond to the exhilarating cry 



LETTERS. 



27 



of nature, or rejoice because he sees others 
rejoice. The loud and unanimous chirp- 
ing of the birds on a fine sunny morning 
pleases me, because I see they are happy ; and 
I should be very selfish, did I not participate 
in their seeming joy. Do not, however, sup- 
pose that I mean to exclude a man's own sor- 
rows from his thoughts, since that is an 
impossibility, and, were it possible, would 
be prejudicial to the human heart. I only 
mean that the whole mind is not to be inces- 
santly engrossed with its cares, but with cheer- 
ful elasticity to bend itself occasionally to 
circumstances, and give way without hesi- 
tation to pleasing emotions. To be pleased 
with little, is one of the greatest blessings. 

Sadness is itself sometimes infinitely more 
pleasing than joy ; but this sadness must be 
of the expansive and generous kind, rather 
referring to mankind at large, than the indi- 
vidual ; and this is a feeling not incompatible 
■with cheerfulness and a contented spirit. 
There is difficulty, however, in setting bounds 
to a pensive disposition ; I have felt it, and I 
have felt that I am not always adequate to the 
task. I sailed from Hull to Barton the day 
before yesterday, on a rough and windy day, 
in a vessel filled with a marching regiment of 
soldiers ; the band played finely, and I was 
enjoying the many pleasing emotions, which 
the water, sky, winds, and musical instru- 
ments excited, when my thoughts were sud- 
denly called away to more melancholy sub- 
jects. A girl, genteelly dressed, and with a 
countenance which, for its loveliness, a painter 
might have copied for Hebe, with aloud laugh 
seized me by the great coat, and asked me to 
lend it her : she was one of those unhappy 
creatures who depend on the brutal and li- 
centious for a bitter livelihood, and was now 
following in the train of one of the officers. 
1 was greatly affected by her appearance and 
situation, and more so by that of another 
female who was with her, and who, with less 
beauty, had a wild sorrowfulness in her face, 
which showed she knew her situation. This 
incident, apparently trifling, induced a train 
of reflections, which occupied me fully dur- 
ing a walk of six or seven miles to our parson- 
age. At first I wished that I had fortune to 
erect an asylum for all the miserable and des- 
titute : — and there was a soldier's wife with a 
wan and bagged face, and a little infant in 
her arms, whom I would also have wished to 
place in it : — 1 then grew out of humour 
with the world, because it was so unfeeling 
and so miserable, and because there was no 
cure for its miseries ; and I wished for a 
lodging in the wilderness where I might hear 
no more of wrongs, affliction, or vice : but, 



after all my speculations, I found there was a 
reason for these things in the Gospel of Jesus 
Christ, and that to those who sought it there 
was also a cure. So I banished my vain 
meditations, and, knowing that God's provi- 
dence is better able to direct the affairs of 
men than our wisdom, I leave them in his 
hands. 

* * * * 



TO HIS MOTHER. 

Winteringham, 5th Feb. 1805. 

DEAR MOTHER, 

* * * * 

The spectacles for my father are, I hope, 
such as will enable him to read with ease, 
although they are not set in silver. If they hurt 
him through stiffness, I think the better way 
will be to wear them with the two end joints 
shut to, and with a piece of ribbon to go round 
the back of the head, &c. The Romaine's 
Sermons, and the Cheap Tracts, are books 
which 1 thought might be useful. You may 
think I am not privileged to make presents, 
since they will in the end come out of your 
pocket ; but I am not in want of cash at pre- 
sent, and have reason to believe, from my 
own calculations, I shall not have occasion to 
call upon you for what I know you can so ill 
spare. I was quite vexed afterwards that I 
did not send you all the volumes of the Cheap 
Repository, as the others, which are the gen- 
eral tracts, and such as are more entertaining, 
would have been well adapted to your library. 
When I next go to Hull, I purpose buying 
the remaining volumes ; and when I next 
have occasion to send a parcel, you will re- 
ceive them. The volume you have got con- 
tains all the Sunday reading tracts, and on 
that account I send it separately. As I have 
many things to remind me of my sister Smith, 
I thought (though we neither of us need such 
mementos) that she would not be averse to 
receive the sermons of the great and good, 
though in some respects singular, Romaine, 
at my hands, as what old-fashioned people 
call a token of a brother's love, but what in more 
courtly phrase is denominated a memento oj 
affection. 



TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 

Winteringham, 17th Feb. 1S05. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I blush when I look back to the date of 
your too long unanswered letter, and were i 



28 



H. K. WHITE'S 



not satisfied that the contents of my sheet of 
post must always be too unimportant to need 
apology, I should now make one. 

The fine and spirited song (song in the noblest 
sense of the word) which you sent me, on the 
projected invasion, demands my best thanks. 
The fervid patriotism which animates it would, 
I think, find an echo in every bosom in 
England ; and I hope and trust the world has 
not been deprived of so appropriate an exhor- 
tation. I perceive, however, one thing, which 
is, that your fire has been crampt by the 
" crambo ' of the rhyme, at all times a griev- 
ous shackle to poets, and yet capable of such 
sweet and expressive modulation, as makes 
us hug our chains, and exult in the hard ser- 
vitude. My poor neglected muse has lain ab- 
solutely unnoticed by me for the last four 
months, during which period I have been 
digging in the mines of Scapula for Greek 
roots ; and instead of drinking, with eager de- 
light, the beauties of Virgil, have been cutting 
and drying his phrases for future use. The 
place where 1 live is on the banks of the 
H umber : here no Sicilian river, but rough 
with cold winds, and bordered with killing 
swamps. What with neglect, and what with 
the climate, so congenial to rural meditation, I 
fear my good Genius, who was wont to visit 
me with nightly visions " in woods and 
brakes, and by the river's marge," is now 
dying of a fen-ague ; and I shall thus proba- 
bly emerge from my retreat, not a hair- 
brained sou of imagination, but a sedate black- 
lettered book-worn), with a head like an 
etymologicon magnum, 

Forgive me this flippancy, in which I am not 
very apt to indulge, and let me offer my best 
wishes that it is not with your muse as with 
mine. Eloquence has always been thought 
a-kin to poetry : though her efforts are not so 
effectually perpetuated, she is not the less 
honoured, or her memory the less carefully 
preserved. Many very plausible hypotheses 
are contradicted by facts, yet I should imagine 
that the genius which prompted your " Con- 
spiracy 17 would be no common basis on which 
:o erect a superstructure of oratorical fame. 
" Est enim oratori fiuitimus Poeta, numeris 
adstrictior paulo, verborum autem licentia 
liberior, multis vero ornandi generibus socius, 
ac pene par," &c. You, no doubt, are well 
acquainted with this passage, in the 1st Dial, 
de Orat. so I shall not go on with it ; but I 
encourage a hope, that I shall one day see a 
living proof of the truth of this position in you. 
Do not quite exclude me from a kind of fellow- 
feeling with you in your oratorical pursuits, 
for you know I must make myself a fit herald 



for the important message I am ordained to 
deliver, and I shall bestow some pains to this 
end. No inducement whatever should pre- 
vail on me to enter into orders, if I were not 
thoroughly convinced of the truth of the re- 
ligion I profess, as contained in the New Tes- 
tament ; and I hope that whatever 1 know to 
be the truth, I shall not hesitate to proclaim, 
however much it may be disliked or despised. 
The discovery of Truth, it is notorious, ought 
to be the object of all true philosophy ; and 
the attainment of this end must, to a philoso- 
pher, be the greatest of all possible blessings. 
If then a man be satisfied that he has arrived 
at the fountain-head of pure Truth, and yet, 
because the generality of men hold different 
sentiments, dares not avow it, but tacitly gives 
assent to falsehood, he withholds from men 
what, according to his principles, it is for 
their good to know—he prefers his personal 
good to Truth— and he proves that, whatever 
he may profess, he is not imbuec? with the 
spirit of true philosophy. 

1 have some intention of becoming a candi- 
date for Sir William Brown's medals this 
year ; and if I should, it would be a great 
satisfaction to me to subject my attempts to so 
good a classic as I understand you to be. In 
the mean time, you will confer a real favour 
on me, if you will transcribe some of your 
Latin verses for me, as I am anxious to see 
the general character of modern Latin as it is 
received at Cambridge ; and elegant verses 
always give me great pleasure, in whatever 
language I read them. Such I know yours 
will be. 



In this remote corner of the world, where 
we have neither books nor booksellers, I am 
as ignorant of the affairs of the literary world 
as an inhabitant of Siberia. Sometimes the 
newspaper gives me some scanty hints ; but, 
as I do not see a review, I cannot be said to 
hold converse with the Republic. Pray, is the 
voice of the Muses quite suspended in the 
clang of arms, or do they yet sing, though un- 
heeded ? All literary information will be to me 
quite new and interesting ; but do not sup- 
pose I hope to intrude on your more valuable 
time with these things. When you shall have 
leisure, I hope to hear from you ; and what- 
ever you say, coming from you, it cannot fail 
to interest. 

Believe me, 
Dear Sir, 

Very sincerely yours. 
H. K. WHITE. 



TO MR. K. SWANN. 

Winteringham, 16th March, 1805. 



DEAR KIRKE, 



I was affected by the death of young B . 

He once called upon me with Mr. H , 
when I was very ill, and on that occasion Mr. 

H said to us both, " Young' men, I would 

have you both pack off to Lisbon, for you wont 

last long if you stay here." Mr. H was 

then about to set out for Hamburgh ; and he 
told me afterwards that he never expected to 
see me again, for that he thought I was more 

desperately gone in consumption than B . 

Yet you see how the good providence of God 
has spared me, and 1 am yet living, as I trust, 
to serve him with all my strength. Had I 
died then, I should have perished for ever; 
but I have now hope, through the Lord Jesus, 
that I shall see the day of death with joy, 
and possibly be the means of rescuing others 
from a similar situation. I certainly thought 
of the ministry at first with improper motives, 
and my views of Christianity were for a long 
time very obscure ; but I have, I trust, gra- 
dually been growing outu of darkness into 
light, and I feel a well-grounded hope, that 
God has sanctified my heart for great and 
valuable purposes. Wo unto me if I frustrate 
his designs ! 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

Winteringham, April, 180c 
DEAR NEVILLE, 



You wrote me a long sheet tnis last time, 
and I have every reason to be satisfied with it, 
yet I sometimes wish I could make you write 
closer and smaller. Since your mind must 
necessarily be now much taken up with other 
things, I dare not press my former inquiries 
on subjects of reading. When your leisure 
season comes, I shall be happy to hear from 
you on these topics. 

It is a remark of an ancient philosophical 
poet, ^Horace,) that every man thinks his 
neighbour's condition happier than bis own ; 
and, indeed, common experience shows, that 



LETTERS. 29 

we are too apt to entertain romantic notion3 
of absent, and to think meanly of present 
things ; to extol what we have had no ex- 
perience of, and to be discontented with what 
we possess. The man of business sighs for the 
sweets of leisure : the person who, with a 
taste for reading, has few opportunities for it, 
thinks that man's life the sum of bliss, who 
has nothing to do but to study. Yet it often 
happens that the condition of the envier is 
happier than that of the envied. You have 
read Dr. Johnson's tale of the poor Tallow- 
Chandler, who, after sighing for the quiet of 
country life, at length scraped money enough 
to retire, but found his long-sought-for lei- 
sure so insupportable, that he made a volun- 
tary offer to his successor to come up to town 
every Friday, and melt tallow for him gratis. 
It would be so with half the men of business, 
who sigh so earnestly for the sweets of retire- 
ment ; and you may receive it as one of the 
maturest observations I have been able to 
make on human life, that there is no condi- 
tion so happy as that of him who leads a life 
of full and constant employment. His amuse- 
ments have a zest which men of pleasure 
would gladly undergo all his drudgery to ex- 
perience : and the regular succession of busi- 
ness, provided his situation be not too anxious, 
drives away from his brain those harass- 
ing speculations which are continually as- 
saulting the man of leisure, and the man of 
reading. The studious man, though his plea- 
sures are of the most refined species, finds 
cares and disturbing thoughts in study. To 
think much and deeply will soon make a man 
sad. His thoughts, ever on the wing, often 
carry him where he shudders to be even in 
imagination. He is like a man in sleep — 
sometimes his dreams are pleasing, but at 
others, horror itself takes possession of his 
imagination ; and this inequality of mind is 
almost inseparable from much meditation and 
mental exercise. From this cause it often 
happens, that lettered and philosophical men 
are peevish in their tempers, and austere in 
their manners. The inference I would draw 
from these remarks is generally this, that 
although every man carries about him the 
seeds of happiness or misery in his own bosom, 
yet it is a truth not liable to many exceptions, 
that men are more equally free from anxiety 
and care, in proportion as they recede from the 
more refined and mental, to the grossei and 
bodily employments and modes of life, but 
that the happiest condition is placed in the 
middle, between the extremes of both. Thus 
a person with a moderate love of reading, and 
few opportunities of indulging it, would be 
inclined to envy one in my situation, because 
such a one has nothing to do but to read : but 



SO H. K. 

I could tell him, that though my studious 
pleasures are more comprehensive than his, 
they are not more exquisite, and that an oc- 
casional banquet gives more delight than a 
continual feast. Reading should be clearer to 
you than to me, because I always read, and 
you but seldom. 



Almond and 1 took a small boat on Mon- 
day, and set out for Hull, a distance of thir- 
teen miles, as some compute it, though others 
make it less. We went very merrily with a 
good pair of oars, until we came within four 
miles of Hull, when, owing to some hard 
working, we were quite exhausted ; but as 
the tide was nearly down, and the shore soft, 
we could not get to any villages on the banks. 
At length we made Hull, and just arrived in 
time to be grounded in the middle of the har- 
bour, without any possible means of getting 
ashore till the flux or flood. As we were half 
famished, I determined to wade ashore for 
provisions, and had the satisfaction of getting 
above the knees in mud almost every step I 
made. When I got ashore, I recollected I 
had given Almond all my cash. This was a 
terrible dilemma — to return back was too la- 
borious, and I expected the tide flowing every 
minute. At last I determined to go to the 
inn where we usually dine when we go to 
Hull, and try how much credit I possessed 
there, and I happily found no difficulty in pro- 
curing refreshments, which I carried off in 
triumph to the boat. Here new difficulties 
occurred ; for the tide had flowed in consider- 
ably during my absence, although not suf- 
ficiently to move the boat, so that my wade 
was much worse back than it had been before. 
On our return, a most placid and calm day 
was converted into a cloudy one, and we had 
a brisk gale in our teeth. Knowing we were 
quite safe, we struck across from Hull to 
Barton ; and when we were off Hazel Whelps, 
a place which is always rough, we had some 
tremendous swells, which we weathered ad- 
mirably, and (bating our getting on the wrong 
side of a bank, owing to the deceitful ap- 
pearance of the coast) we had a prosperous 
voyage home, having rowed twenty-six miles 
in less than five hours. 



TO MR. K. SWANN. 

Winteringham, April 6th, 1805. 
MY E-EAR KIRKE, 



Yoi'R complaint of the lukewarmness of 






WHITE'S 

your affections towards spiritual things, is a 
very common one with Christians. We all 
feel it ; and if it be attended with an earnest 
desire to acquit ourselves in this respect, and 
to recover our wonted fervour, it is a com- 
plaint indicative of our faithfulness. In cases 
of Christian experience, I submit my own 
opinion to any body's, and have too serious a 
distrust of it myself, to offer it as a rule or 
maxim of unquestionable authority ; but I 
have found, and thiuk, that the best remedy 
against lukewarmness, is an obstinate per- 
sisting in prayer, until our affections be moved ; 
and a regular habit of going to religious duties 
with a prepared and meek heart, thinking 
more of obtaining communion with God, than 
of spending so many minutes in seeking it. 
Thus, when we pray, we must not kneel down 
with the idea that we are to spend so many 
minutes in supplication, and after the usual 
time has elapsed, go about our regular busi- 
ness ; we must remind ourselves that we have 
an object in prayer, and that until that object 
be attained, that is, until we are satisfied 
that our Father hears us, we are not to con- 
ceive that our duty is performed, although we 
may be in the posture of prayer for an hour. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 



Winteringham, 12th April, 1805. 



MY DEAR MOTHER, 



I have constructed a planetarium, or orrery, 
of a very simple kind, which cannot fail to 
give even children an idea of the order and 
course of the heavenly bodies. I shall write 
a few plain and simple lectures upon it, with 
lessons to be got off by heart by the children, 
so that you will be able, without any difficulty, 
to teach them the rudiments of astronomy. 
The machine, simple as it may seem, is such 
that you cannot fail to understand the plan- 
etary system by it ; and were it not that I can- 
not afford the additional expense, I could 
make it much more complete and interesting. 
You must not expect any thing striking in the 
instrument itself, as it only consists of an 
index-plate, with iods and balls. — It will ex- 
plain the situation of the planets, their courses, 
the motion of the earth and moon, the causes of 
the seasons, the different lengths of day and 
night, the reason of eclipses, transits, &c. 
When you have seen it, and read the explana- 
tory lectures, you will be able to judge of its 



LETTERS. 



31 



plainness; and if you find you understand it, 
you may teach geography scholars its use. 
ShonJd it fail in other points of view, it will be 
useful to Maria and Catharine. 



Remember to keep up the plan of family 
worship on Sundays with strictness until I 
come, and it will probably pave the way for 
still further improvements, which I may, per- 
haps, have an opportunity of making while 
I stay with you. Let Maria and Catharine 
be more particularly taught to regard Sunday 
as a day set apart from all worldly occupa- 
tions.— Let them have every thing prepared 
for the Sabbath on the preceding day ; and 
be carefully warned, on that day in particu- 
lar, to avoid paying too great an attention to 
dress. I know how important habits like 
these will be to their future happiness even in 
this world, and I therefore press this with 
earnestness. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

"Winteringham, 20th May, 1805. 

DEAR NEVILLE, 

* * * * 

My first business must be to thank you for 
the * * * * ? W hich I received by Mr. K. 
Swann ; you must not suppose that I feel re- 
luctance to lie under obligations to so affec- 
tionate a brother, when I say, that I have 
felt uneasy ever since on more accounts than 
one. I am convinced, in the first place, that 
you have little to spare ; and I fear, in the 
second, that I shall prove a hinderance to a 
measure which I know to be necessary for 
your health: I mean your going to some 
watering-place for the benefit of sea-bathing. 
1 am aware of the nature of injuries re- 
ceived at the joints, especially the knee ; 
and I am sure nothing will strengthen your 
knee more for the present, and prevent 
the recurrence of disease in it for the future. 
I would have you, therefore, if by any means 
you can be spared in London, go to one of 
the neighbouring coasts, and take sufficient 
time to recover your strength. You may pitch 
upon some pleasant place, where there will be 
sufficient company to amuse you, and not so 
much as to create bustle, and make a toil of 
reflection, and turn retirement into riot. Since 



you must be as sensible as I am, that this is 
necessary for your health, I shall feel assured, 
if you do not go, that I am the cause, a con- 
sideration I would gladly spare myself. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Nottingham, June, 1805. 



MY DEAR BROTHER, 



I wrote you a long letter from "Wintering- 
ham some time ago, which I now apprehend 
you have never received, or, if you have, some 
more important concerns have occupied your 
time than writing to me on general subjects. 
Feeling, however, rather weary to-night, I 
have determined to send this sheet to you, as 
a proof that, if I am not a punctual, I am cer- 
tainly far from a ceremonious correspondent. 

Our adventure on the Humber you should 
have learnt from K. Swann, who, with much 
minuteness, filled up three sides of a letter to 
his friend with the account. The matter was 
simply this : He, Almond, and myself, made 
an excursion about twelve or fourteen miles 
up the Humber; on our return ran aground, 
were left by the tide on a sand-bank, and 
were obliged to remain six hours in an open 
boat exposed to a heavy rain, high wind, and 
piercing cold, until the tide rose, when two 
men brought a boat to our assistance. We 
got home about twelve o'clock at night : no 
evil consequences ensued, owing to our using 
every exertion we could think of to keep 
warmth in our bodies. 



TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWORTH. 

Nottingham, 27th June, 1805. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

It is some time since I wrote to you, and 
still longer since 1 heard from you ; but you 
are acquainted with my unceremonious dispo- 
sition, and will, I hope, pardon me for obtrud- 
ing an unbidden guest on your notice. I have 
a question to ask of you in the first place, and I 
shall then fill up my letter with all the fami- 
liarity of a man talking by your side, and 
saying any thing, rather than be accused of 
saying nothing. My leisure will scarcely per- 



32 



H. K. WHITE'S 



mit me to write to you again while I am here, 
and I shall therefore make the best use of the 
present occasion. 



We have been fagging through Rollin's 
Ancient History, and some other historical 
books, as I believe, to no great purpose. Rol- 
lin is a valuable and truly pious writer, but 
so crammed and garnished with reflections, 
that you lose the thread of the story, while 
the poor man is prosing about the morality of 
it ; when, too, after all, the moral is so obvious 
as not to need insisting upon. You may give 
my compliments to your good friends Galen, 
Hippocrates, and Paracelsus, and tell them I 
had much rather pay them my devoirs at a 
distance, than come into close contact with 
them or their cathartics. Medical Greek, and 
Medical Latin, would act as a sudorific upon 
any man, who should hear their tremendous 
technicals pronounced with the true ore ro- 
tundoofa. Scotch physician. 

And now, my dear Sir, we will cry a truce 
to flippancy — I have neither time nor inclina- 
tion to indulge in it to excess. You and I 
have been some time asunder in the pursuit of 
our several studies; you to the lively and 
busy seat of gayety, fashion, and folly ; — I to 
the retired haunts of a secluded village, and 
the studious walls of a silent and ancient par- 
sonage. At first sight one would think that 
my lot had been most profitable, as undoubt- 
edly it is most secure ; but when we come to 
consider the present state of things in the 
capital, the boundless opportunities of spiritu- 
al improvement which offer themselres, and 
the very superior society which every serious 
man may there join with, the tables seem 
turned in your favour. I hope and trust this 
is really the case, and that, with philosophical 
strength of mind, you have turned an unre- 
garding ear to the voice of folly, and con- 
tinued fixed upon the serener and far more 
exquisite occupations of a religious life. I 
have been cultivating in retirement by slow 
and imperceptible degrees, a closer com- 
munion with God ; but you have been led, as it 
were, in triumph by the energetic discourses 
of the many good men whom you have had the 
opportunity of hearing, to heights of religious 
satisfaction, which I can at present only sigh 
for at a distance. I appeal to you whether 
the grace of God is not the source of exquisite 
enjoyments ? What can be more delightful 
than that sweet and placid calm which it casts 
over one's mind ; or than the tenderness it 
sheds abroad in our hearts, both with regard 
to God, and our poor fellow-labourers ? Even 



worldly-minded men confess that this life is, at 
best, but a scene of anxiety, and disappoint- 
ment, and distress. How absurd then, and in- 
consistent must be their conduct, when, in spiie 
of this so general and confirmed an experience, 
they neglect what can alone alleviate the sor- 
rows of this life, and provide for the happi- 
ness of the next ? How much more is he to be 
envied, who can exclaim with St. Paul, " The 
world is crucified unto me, and I unto the 
world." " / have learnt, in whatever state I am, 
therewith to be content" " The world passeth 
away and the lust thereof; hut he that doeth the 
will of God ahideth for ever." There is, in 
truth, an indescribable satisfaction in the ser- 
vice of God ; his grace imparts such compo- 
sure in time of trouble, and such fortitude in 
the anticipation of it, at the same time that it 
increases our pleasures by making them inno- 
cent, that the Christian, viewed either as mili- 
tant in this troublesome scene, or as a travel- 
ler who is hastening, by a difficult, but short 
journey, to a better country, is a most enviable 
and happy character. The man who lives 
without God in the world, on the other 
hand, has neither rest here, nor certainty 
or hope for the future. His reflections must, 
at all times, be dubious and dark, not to say 
distressing ; and his most exquisite enjoyments 
must have a sting of fear and apprehension in 
them, which is felt when the gay hour is over, 
and its joys no more remembered. Many 
wicked and dissipated men sigh in secret for 
the state of the righteous, but they conceive 
there are insuperable obstacles in the way of 
religion, and that they must amend their lives 
before they can hope for acceptance, or even 
dare to seek acceptance with God. But what 
a miserable delusion is this ! If this were 
truly the case, how awful would be the condi- 
tion of the sinner ! for we know that our 
hearts are so depraved, and sc obstinately 
addicted to sin, that they cannot forsake it 
without some more than mortal power to tu t 
asunder the bonds of innate corruption, and 
loosen the affections from this sinful bondage. 
I was talking a few days ago with a young 
surgeon who is just returned from the East 
Indies, and was expostulating with him on 
his dissolute habits : " Sir," said he, " I know 
you are happy, and I would give worlds to be 
able to subdue my passions; but it is impos- 
sible, it never can be done : I have made reso- 
lution upon resolution, and the only effect has 
been that I have plunged the deeper into vice 
than ever." What could be a stronger illustra- 
tion of the Scripture truth, That man's heart is 
naturally corrupt, and desperately wicked ? 
Since wickedness is misery, can we conceive 
that an all-good and benevolent God would 
have originally created man with such a 



liETTEKS. 

disposition ? It is sin which hath made the 
world a vale of tears. It is the power of the 
cross of Jesus Christ alone that can redeem us 
from our natural depravity : — Yes, my 
friend, " We know on whom we have believed; 
and we are persuaded that he is able to keep 
that which we have commited unto him against 
the great day." When I occasionally reflect 
on the history of the times when the great 
Redeemer appeared, behold God preparing 
his way before him, uniting all the civilized 
world in one language, (Greek,) for the 
speedier disseminating of the blessed gospel ; 
and then, when I compare his precepts with 
those of the most famous of ancient sages, and 
meditate on his life, his manners, his sufferings, 
and cruel death, I am lost in wonder, love, 
and gratitude. Such a host of evidence at- 
tended him, as no power but that of the devil 
could withstand. His doctrines, compared 
with the morality of the then world, seem in- 
deed to have dropt down from heaven. His 
meekness, his divine compassion and pity for, 
and forgiveness of, his bitterest enemies, con- 
vinces me that he was indeed the Word ; that 
he was what he professed to be, God, in his 
Son, reconciling the world to himself. These 
thoughts open my eyes to my own wretched 
ingratitude and disregard of so merciful and 
compassionate a master ; under such impres- 
sions, I could ardently long to be separated 
altogether from the affairs of this life, and live 
alone to my Redeemer. But, alas ! this does 
not last long — the pleasing outside of the 
delusive world entices my heart away ; beauty 
smiles me into a disgust of religion, and the 
fear of singularity frowns me into the conceal- 
ment of it. How artfully does the arch-deceiv- 
er insinuate himself into our hearts ! He tells 
us, that there is a deal of unnecessary mo- 
roseness in religion, a deal too many humiliating 
conditions in the Gospel, and many ignorant 
absurdities in its professors ; while, on the 
other hand, the polite world is so cheerful and 
pleasing, so full of harmless gayety and refined 
elegance, that we cannot but love it. This is 
an insidious species of reasoning. Could we 
but see things in their true colours, were but 
the false varnish off, the society of the Gospel 
would seem an assembly of angels, and that of 
the world a congregation of devils : but it is 
the best way not to reason with the Tempter. 
I have a Talisman, which at once puts to 
flight all his arguments ; it is the name of my 
Saviour, and against that the gates of hell 
shall not prevail. That is my anchor and my 
confidence ; I can go with that to the bed of 
death, and lift up the eyes of the dying and 
despairing wretch to the great Intercessor ; I 
can go with this into the society of the cheer- 
ful, and come away with lightness of heart, 



S3 

and entertainment of spirit. In every circum- 
stance of life I can join with Job, who, above 
fourteen hundred years before Jesus Christ, 
exclaims, in the fervour of holy anticipation, 
" I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that 
he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth : 
and though after my skin worms destroy this 
body, yet in my flesh shall I see God/' 

The power of the Gospel was never more 
strongly illustrated than in the late mission 
to Greenland. These poor and unlettered 
tribes, who inhabit nearly the extremest verge 
of animal existence, heard the discourses oi 
the Danish missionaries on the being of a God 
with stupid unconcern, expressed their assent 
to every thing that was proposed to them, and 
then hoped to extort some present for their 
complacency. For ten years did a very learn- 
ed and pious man labour among them with- 
out the conversion of a single soul. He 
thought that he must prove to them the exist- 
ence of a God, and the original stain of our 
natures, before he could preach the peculiar 
doctrines of the Gospel, and he could never 
get over this first step ; for they either could 
not understand it, or would not, and when no 
presents were to be had, turned away in dis- 
gust. At length he saw his error, and the 
plan of operations was altered. Jesus Christ 
was preached in simplicity, without any pre- 
paration. The Greenlanders seemed thought- 
ful, amazed, and confounded ; their eyes 
were opened to their depraved and lost state. 
The Gospel was received every where with 
ardent attention. The flame spread like wild- 
fire over the icy wastes of Greenland ; numbers 
came from the remotest recesses of the Nor- 
thern Ocean to hear the word of life ; and the 
greater part of the population of that extensive 
country has in time been baptized in the 
name of the Father, and the Son, and the 
Holy Ghost. 

I have now filled my sheet. — Pardon my 
prolixity, and believe me, my prayers are 
offered up, frequently, for your continuance 
of the path you have chosen. For myself, I 
need your prayers—may we be a mutual as- 
sistance to each other, and to all our fellow 
labourers in the Lord Jesus. 
Believe me 

Your sincere friend, 
H. K. WHITE. 



TO MR. JOHN CHARLESWORTH. 

Nottingham, 6th July, 1805. 
DEAR CHARLESWORTH, 

* * » * * * 

I rf.g you will, admire the elegance of texture 



34 H. K. 

and shape of the sheet. on which I have 
the honour to write to you, and beware lest, in 
drawing your conclusions, you conceive that I 
am turned exciseman ;— for 1 assure you I 
write altogether in character ; — a poor Cam- 
bridge scholar, with a patrimony of a few old 
books, an ink-horn, and some sundry quires of 
paper, manufactured as the envelopes of 
pounds of tea, but converted into repositories 
of learning and taste. 



WHITE'S 

had some expectations of seeing you, and had 
not circumstances prevented, I had certainly 
waited there till to-morrow morning for that 
purpo e. This letter, which I wrote at Brigg, 
I shall convey to you at Kirton, by some per- 
son going to the session; many of whom, I 
have no doubt, are to be found in this litigious 
little town. 



The classics are certainly in disrepute. The 
ladies have no more reverence for Greek and 
Latin, than they have for an old peruke, or 
the ruffles of Queen Anne. I verily believe 
that they would hear Homer's Greek without 
evidencing one mark of terror and awe, even 
though spouted by a university orator, or a 
Westminster Stentor. O tempora ! o mores ! 
the rural elegance of the twanging French 
horn, and the vile squeak of the Italian fiddle 
are more preferred than all the energy, and all 
the sublimity of all the Greek and Roman 
orators, historians, poets, and philosophers, 
put together. Now, Sir, as a classic, I can- 
not bear to have the honourable fame of the 
ancients thus despised and contemned, and 
therefore I have a controversy with all the 
beaux and belles, Frenchmen and Italians. 
When they tell me that I walk by rule and 
compass, that I balance my body with strict 
regard to the centre of gravity, and that I have 
more Greek in my pate than grace in my limbs, 
I can bear it all in sullen silence, for you 
know it must be a libel, since I am no mathe- 
matician, and therefore cannot have learned 
to walk ill by system. As for grace, I do 
believe, since I read Xenophon, I am become 
a very elegant man, and in due time shall be 
able to spout Pindar, dancing in due gradation 
the advancing, retrograde, and medium steps, 
according to the regular progress of the 
strophe, antistrophe, and epode. You and I 
will be very fashionable men, after the man- 
ner of the Greeks : we will institute an orches- 
tra for the exercise of the ars saltandi, and 
will recline at our meals on the legitimate 
Triclinium of the ancients — only banish all 
modern beaux and belles, to whom I am a pro- 
fessed and declared enemy. 

So much for flippancy — 

Vale ! S. R. V. B. E. E. Q. V. 
H. K. WHITE. 



TO MR. SERJEANT ROUGH. 

Brlgg, near Winteringham, July, 1805. 
MY DEAR SIR, 

I have just missed you at Lincoln, where 1 



Your mis-directed epistle to my great sor- 
row, never reached my hands. As I was very 
anxious to get it, I made many inquiries at 
the post-offices round ; but they were all in 
vain. I consider this as a real loss, and I hope 
you will regard me as still under the pressure 
of vexation, until I receive some substitute 
from your hands. 

Had I any certain expectation of hearing 
you address the Court or Jury sworn at Kir- 
ton, no circumstances should prevent me from 
being present; so do I long to mark the 
dawnings of that eloquence which will one 
day ring through every court in the Midland 
Circuit. I think the noise of * * *, the over- 
bearing petulance of * * *, and the decent 
assur tnce of * * *, will readily yield to that 
pure, chaste, and manly eloquence, which, I 
have no doubt, you chiefly cultivate. It 
seems to me, who am certainly no very com- 
petent judge, that there is a uniform mode t or 
art, of pleading in our courts, which is in itself 
faulty, and is, moreover, a bar to the higher 
excellencies. You know, before a barrister 
begins, in what manner he will treat the sub- 
ject; you anticipate his positiveness, his com- 
plete confidence in the stability of his case, 
his contempt of his opponent, his voluble 
exaggeration, and the vehemence of his indig- 
nation. All these are as of course. It is no 
matter what sort of a face the business assume : 

if Mr. be all impetuosity, astonishment, 

and indignation on one side, we know he 
would not have been a whit less impetuous, 
less astonished, or less indignant, on the 
other, had he happened to have been retained. 
It is true, this assurance of success, this con- 
tempt of an opponent, and dictatorial decision 
in speaking, are calculated to have effect on 
the minds of a jury ; and if it be the business 
of a counsel to obtain his ends by any means, 
he is right to adopt them ; but the misfortune 
is, that all these things are mechanical, and as 
much in the power of the opposite counsel as 
in your own ; so that it is not so much who 
argues best, as who speaks last, loudest, or 
longest. True eloquence, on the other hand, 
is confident only where there is real ground 
for confidence, trusts more to reason and facts 
than to imposing declamation, and seeks 
rather to convince than dazzle. 



LETTERS. 



85 



The obstreperous rant of a pleader may, for 
a while, intimidate a jury ; but plain and man- 
ly argument, delivered in a candid and in- 
genuous manner, will more effectually work 
upon their understandings, and will make an 
impression on which the froth of declamation 
will be lost. I think a man who would plead 
in this manner, would gain the confidence of 
a jury, and would find the avenues of their 
hearts much more open, than a man of more 
assurance, who, by too much confidence where 
there is much doubt, and too much vehemence 
where there is greater need of coolness, puts his 
hearers continually in mind that he is pleading 
for hire. There seems to me so much beauty in 
truth, that I could wish our barristers would 
make a distinction between cases, in their 
opinion well or ill-founded, embarking their 
whole heart and soul in the one, and con- 
tenting themselves with a perspicuous and 
forcible statement of their client's case in 
the other. 

Pardon my rambling. The cacoethes scri- 
bendi can only be used by indulgence, and we 
have all a propensity to talk about things we 
do not understand. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 



Winteringham, August 20th } 18C5. 



DEAR NEVILLE, 



I am very sensible of all your affection, in 
your anxiety that I should not diminish my 
books ; but I am by no means relieved from 
the anxiety which, on more accounts than 
one, I am under, as to my present situation, 
so great a burthen to the family, when I 
ought to be a support. My father made some 
heavy complaints when I was at home ; and 
though I am induced to believe that he is enough 
harassed to render it very excusable, yet I 
cannot but feel strongly the peculiarity of my 
situation ; and, at my age, feel ashamed that 
I should add to his burthens. At present 1 
have my hands completely tied behind me. 
When I get to college, I hope to have more 
opportunities of advantage, and, if I am for- 
tunate, I shall probably relieve my father and 
mother from the weight which I now lay up- 
on them. I wish you, if you read this letter 
to my mother, to omit this part. 



TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 



Winteringlium, Sept. 10th 1S0S. 



Your letter has at length reached me at this 
place, where 1 have been for the last ten 
months employed in classical reading with 
Mr. Grainger. It gives me pleasure to hear of 
you, and of poetry : for, since I came here, I 
have not only been utterly shut out from all 
intercourse with the lettered world, but have - 
totally laid aside the pen of inspiration. I 
have been actuated to this by a sense of duty ; 
for I wish to prove that 1 have not coveted 
the ministerial office through the desire of 
learned leisure, but with an ardent wish to do 
my duty as a teacher of the truth. I should 
blush to present myself as a candidate for that 
office in an unqualified and unprepared state ; 
and as I have placed my idea of the necessary 
qualifications very high, all the time between 
now and my taking my degree will be little 
enough for these purposes alone. I often, 
however, cast a look of fond regret to the 
darling occupations of my younger hours, 
and the tears rush into my eyes, as I fancy I 
see the few wild flowers of poetic genius, with 
which I have been blessed, withering with ne- 
glect. Poetry has been to me something more 
than amusement ; it has been a cheerful com- 
panion when I have had no other to fly to, and 
a delightful solace when consolation has been 
in some measure needful. I cannot, therefore, 
discard so old and faithful a friend without 
deep regret, especially when 1 reflect that, 
stung by my ingratitude, he may desert me 
for ever ! 



With regard to your intended publication, 
you do me too much honour by inserting 
my puerilities along with such good company 
as I know I shall meet there. I wish I could 
present you with some sonnets worthy oi 
your work. I have looked back amongst my old 
papers, and find a few verses under that name, 
which were written between the time when 
" Clifton Grove" was sent to the press, and its 
final appearance. The looking over these 
papers has recalled a little of my old warmth, 
and I have scribbled some lines, which, as 
they owe their rise to your letter, I may fairly 
(if I have room) present you. I cannot read 
the sonnets which I have found amongst my 
papers with pleasure, and therefore I shall 
not presume to show them to you. 1 shall 
anxiously expect the publication of your 
work. 



36 



H. K. WHITE'S 



I shall be in Cambridge next month, being 
admitted a Sizar at St. John's. Trinity would 
have suited my plans better, but the expenses 
of that college are greater. 

With thanks for your kind remembrance of 
ne, I remain, 

Dear Sir, 
Very respectfully and thaukfully yours, 
H. K. WHITE. 

YES, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far 

From thee, and long, heart-soothing Poesy ! 

And many a flower, which in the passing time 

My heart hath register'd, nipp'd by the chill 

Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. 

Heart-soothing Poesy ! — Though thou hast ceased 

To hover o'er the many-voiced strings 

Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still 

Call the warm tear from its thricc-hallow'd cell, 

And with recalled images of bliss 

Warm my reluctant heart. — Yes, I would throw, 

Once more would throw, a quick and hurried hand 

O'er the responding chords. — It hath not ceased— 

It cannot, will not cease ; the heavenly warmth 

Plays round my heart, and mantles o'er my cheek ; 

Still, though unbidden, plays.— Fair Poesy ! 

The summer and the spring, the wind and rain, 

Sunshine, and storm, with various interchange, 

Have mark'd full many a day, and week, and month, 

Since by dark wood, or hamlet far retired, 

Spell-struck, with thee I loiter'd. — Sorceress ! 

I cannot burst thy bonds ! — It is but lift 

Thy blue eyes to that deep-bespangled vault, 

Wreathe thy enchanted tresses round thine arm, 

And mutter some obscure and charmed rhyme, 

And I could follow thee, on thy night's work, 

Up to the regions of thrice-chastened fire, 

Or in the caverns of the ocean flood, 

TTi rid the light mazes of thy volant foot. 

Yet other duties call me, and mine ear 

Must turn away from the high minstrelsy 

Of thy soul-trancing harp, unwillingly 

Must turn away ; there are severer strains, 

(And surely they are sweet as ever smote 

The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil 

Released and disembodied,) there are strains, 

Forbid to all, save those whom solemn thought, 

Through the probation of revolving years, 

And mighty converse with the spirit of truth, 

Have purged and purified. — To these my soul 

Aspireth ; and to this sublimer end 

I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep 

With patient expectation.— Yea, sometimes 

Foretaste of bliss rewards me j and sometimes 

Spirits unseen upon my footsteps wait, 

And minister strange music, which doth seem 

Now near, now distant, now on high, now low, 

Then swelling from all sides, with bliss complete, 

And full fruition filling all the soul. 

Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe 

The steep ascent, and cheat the lassitude 

Of toil ; and but that my fond heart 

Reverts to day-dreams of the summer gone, 

When by clear fountain, or embowered brake, 

1 lay a listless m user, prizing, far 

Above all other lore, the poet's theme ; 

But for such recollections I could brace 

My stubborn spirit for the arduous path 

Of science unregretting ; eye afar 



Philosophy upon her steepest height, 

And with bold step, and resolute attempt, 

Pursue her to the innermost recess, 

Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. 

These verses form nearly the only poeti» 
cal effort of this year. Pardon their impel* 
fections. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. John's. Oct. lSth, 1805. 
MY DEAR BEN, 

I am at length finally settled in my rooms, 
and, according to my promise, I write to you to 
tell you so. I did not feel quite comfortable at 
first here ; but I now begin to feel at home, and 
relish my silent and thoughtful cup of tea 
more than ever. Amongst our various occu- 
pations, that of attending chapel is tome not 
the least irksome, for the service is read in 
general below the span of my auditory nerve ; 
but when they chant, I am quite charmed, 
for our organ is fine, and the voices are good. 
This is, however, only on high days and festi- 
vals, in which number the present day is to be 
reckoned (St. Luke's.) 

My mathematical studies do not agree with 
me, and you may satisfy yourself I shall never 
be a senior wrangler. Many men come up 
with knowledge enough for the highest 
honours, and how can a man be expected to 
keep up with them who starts without any 
previous fund ? Our lectures begin on Mon- 
day, and then I shall know more of college 
difficulties. 

My rooms are in the top story of the farthest 
court of St. John's (which you perhaps re- 
member) near the cloisters. They are light, 
and tolerably pleasant ; though, as there was 
no furniture in them, and I have not yet 
bought many necessary articles, they look 
very bare. Your phiz over the chimney-piece 
has been recognized by two of my fellow- 
students ; the one recollected its likeness to 
Mr. Maddock of Magdalene ; and the other 
said it was like a young man whom he had 
seen with Mr. Maddock, and whom he sup- 
posed to be his brother. 

Of my new acquaintances, I have become 
intimate with a Mr. ***, who, I hope, will 
be senior wrangler. He is a very serious and 
friendly man, and a man of no common mathe- 
matical talents. He lives in the same court 
with me. Besides him, I know of none whose 



LETTEBS 

friendship I should value ; and, including him, 
no one whose hand I would take in preference 
to that of my old friend, so long as I see my 
old friend with his old face. When you 
have learned to be other than what you are, 
I shall not regret that B. M. is no longer 
my friend, but that my former friend is now 
no more. 



I walked through Magdalene the other 
day, and I could not help anticipating the 
time when 1 should come to drink your tea, 
and swallow your bread and butter, within 
the sacred walls. You must know our college 
was originally a convent for Black Friars ; and 
if a man of the reign of Henry the Sixth were 
to peep out of bis grave, in the adjoining 
church-yard, and look into our portals, judg- 
ing by our dress and appearance, he might 
deem us a convent of Black Friars still. Some 
of our brethren, it is true, would seem of very 
unsightly bulk; but many of them, with eyes 
sunk into their heads, from poring over the 
mathematics, might pass very well for the 
fasting and mortified shadows of penitent 
monks. 

With regard to the expenses of our college, 
I can now speak decisively ; and I can tell 
you, that I shall be here an independent man. 
I am a Senior Sizar, under very favourable 
circumstances, and, I believe, the profits of 
my situation will nearly equal the actual ex- 
penses of the college. But this is no rule for 
other colleges. I am on the best side (there 
are two divisions) of St. John's, and the 
expenses here are less than any where else in 
the university. 

I have this week written some very elaborate 
verses for a college prize, and I have at length 
learned that 1 am not qualified for a com- 
petitor, not being a Lady Margaret's scholar : 
so that I have lost my labour. — Compared with 
the other men of this large college, I find I am 
a respectable classic, and if I had time to give 
to the languages, I think I should ultimately 
succeed in them in no small degree ; but the 
fates forbid ; mathematics I must read, and in 
mathematics I know T never shall excel. 
These are harassing reflections forapoor young 
man gaping for a fellowship ! 

If I chose I could find a good deal of re- 
ligious society here, but I must not indulge 
myself with it too much. Mr. Simeon's 
preaching strikes me much. 



37 
I beg you will answer a thousaud such 
questions as these without my asking them. 

This is a letter of intelligence : — next shall 
be sentiment, (or Gothic arch, for they are 
synonymous according to Mr. M.) 



TO HIS MOTHER. 



St. John's, October 26th, 1805. 



DEAR MOTHER, 



Yon seem to repose so little confidence in 
what I say with regard to my college ex- 
penses, that I am not encouraged to hope you 
will give me much credit for what I am about 
to say, namely, that had I no money at all, 
either from my friends or Mr. Simeon, I could 
manage to live here. My situation is so very 
favourable, and the necessary expenses so 
very few, that I shall want very little more 
than will suffice for clothes and books. I 
have got the bills of Mr. * *, a Sizar of this 
college, now before me, and from them, and 
his own account, I will give you a statement 
of what my college bills will amount to. 



Thus my college expenses will not be more 
than 122. or 152. a-year at the most. I shall 
not have any occasion for the whole sum I 
have a claim upon Mr. Simeon for; and if 
things go well, 1 shall be able to live without 
being dependent on any one. The Mr. * *, 
whose bills I have borrowed, has been at 
college three years. He came over from * *, 
with 101. in his pocket, and has no friends, or 
any income or emolument whatever, except 
what he receives for his Sizarship ; yet he 
does support himself, and that, too, very gen- 
teelly. It is only men's extravagance that 
makes college life so expensive. There are 
Sizars at St. John's who spend 1507. a-year : 
but they are gay, dissipated men, who choose 
to be Sizars in order that they may have more 
money to lavish on their pleasures. Our 
dinners and suppers cost us nothing ; and if a 
man choose to eat milk-breakfasts, and go 
without tea, he may live absolutely for no- 
thing ; for his college emoluments will cover 
the rest of his expenses. Tea is indeed almost 
superfluous, since we do not rise from dinner 
till half past three, and the supper bell rings a 
quarter before nine. Our mode of living is 



38 



H. K. WHITE'S 



not to be complained of, for the table is covered 
with all possible variety ; and on feast-days, 
which our fellows take care are pretty fre- 
quent, we have wine. 

You will now, I trust, feel satisfied on this 
subject, and will no longer give yourself un- 
necessary uneasiness on my account. 



I was unfortunate enough to be put into 
unfurnished rooms, so that my furniture will 
cost me a little more than I expected ; I sup- 
pose about 151., or perhaps not quite so much. 
I sleep on a hair mattress, which I find just as 
comfortable as a bed ; it only cost me 41., 
along with blankets, counterpane, and pil- 
lows, &c. I have three rooms — a sitting-room, 
a bed-room, and a kind of scullery or pantry. 
My sitting-room is very light and pleasant, 
and what does not often happen, the walls are 
in good case, having been lately stained 
green. 

I must commission my sister to make me a 
pair of letter racks, but they must not be fine, 
because my furniture is not very fine. 1 think 
the old shape (or octagons, one upon another) 
is the neatest, and white the best colour. 1 
wish Maria would paint vignettes in the 
squares, because then 1 should see how her 
drawing proceeds. You must know that these 
are not intended as mere matters of show, but 
are intended to answer some purpose ; there 
are so many particular places to attend on 
particular days, that unless a man is very 
cautious, he has nothing else to do than to 
pay forfeits for non-attendance. A few cards, 
and a little rack, will be a short way of help- 
ing the memory. 

I think I must get a supply of sugar from 
London ; for if I buy it here, it will cost me 
Is. 6d. per pound, which is rather too much. 
1* have got tea enough to last the term out. 



Although you may be quite easy on the sub- 
ject of my future support, yet you must not 
form splendid ideas of my success at the uni- 
versity, for the lecturers all speak so low, 
and we sit at such a distance, that I cannot 
hear a syllable. I have, therefore, no more 
advantage than if I were studying at home, 

I beg we may have no more doubts and fears, 
at least on my score. I think I am now very 
near being off youv hands; and, since my 



education at the university is quite secure, you 
need not entertain gloomy apprehensions for 
the future ; my maintenance will, at all events, 
be decent and respectable : and you must not 
grieve yourself because I cannot be as rich as 
an alderman. 



Do not show this letter to all comers, nor 
leave it about, for people will have a very 
mean idea of university education, when they 
find it costs so little ; but if they are saucy 
on the subject, tell them — I have a Lord just 
under me. 



TO THE REV. JOHN DASHWOOD. 

St. John's, Oct. 26th, 1805. 
DEAR SIR, 

It is now many months since I wrote to you, 
and I have not received any answer. I should 
not have troubled you with this letter, but 
that, considering how much I owe to you, 
I thought the rules and observances of strict 
etiquette might with moral propriety be dis- 
pensed with. 

Suffer me therefore to tell you, that I am 
quietly and comfortably settled at St. John's, 
silently conforming myself to the habits of 
college life, and pursuing my studies with 
such moderation as I think necessary for my 
health. I feel very much at home, and toler- 
ably happy ; although the peculiar advantages 
of university education will in a great mea- 
sure be lost to me, since there is not one of the 
lecturers whom I am able to hear. 

My literary ambition is, I think, now fast 
subsiding, and a better emulation springing, 
up in its room. I conceive that, considering 
the disadvantages under which I labour, very 
little can be expected from me in the Senate 
House. I shall not, however, remit my exer- 
tions, but shall at least strive to acquit myself 
with credit, though I cannot hope for the more 
splendid honours, 

With regard to my college expenses, I have 
the pleasure to inform you, that my situation 
is so favourable, that I shall be obliged, in 
strict rectitude, to wave the offers of many of 
my friends. I shall not even need the sum 
Mr. Simeon mentioned after the first year; 
and it is not impossible that I may be able to 
live without any assistance at all. 1 confess 



LETTERS. 



I feel pleasure in the thought of this, not 
through any vain pride of independence, but 
because I shall then give a more unbiassed 
testimony to the Truth, than if I were supposed 
to be bound to it by any ties of obligation or 
gratitude. I shall always feel as much in- 
debted for intended, as for actually afforded 
assistance ; and though I should never think a 
sense of thankfulness an oppressive burthen, 
yet I shall be happy to evince it, when, in 
the eyes of the world, the obligation to it has 
been discharged. 



I hope you will ere long relieve me from the 
painful thought that I lie under your displea- 
sure ; and believe me, 

Dear Sir, 
Most sincerely and affectionately yours, 
H. K. WHITE. 



TO MR. CHARLESWORTH. 



Cum diutius a. te fruslra litteras expectassem 
aiemet, in animum tuum revocare aut iternm 
otio obtrudere nolebam. 

Penes te erat aut nobiscum denuo per litter- 
as colloqui aut familiaritatem et necessitatem 
nostram silentio dimittere. Hoc te praetulisse 
jam diu putaveram, cum epistola tua mihi in 
manus venit. 



Has litteras scribebam intra sanctos Sanctis- 
simi Johannis Collegii muros, in celeberrima 
hac nostrS. academia Cantabrigiae. 

Hie tranquillitate denique litterarum pro- 
pria, summa cum voluptate conjuncta fruor. 
Hie omnes discendi vias, omnes scientiae 
rationes indago et persequor : nescio quid 
tandem evasurus. Certe si parum proficio, 
mihi culpoe jure datum erit; modo valetudo 
me sinat. 

Haud tamen vereor, si verum dicere cogor, 
ut satis proficiam : quanquam infirmis auribus 
aliorum lecturas vix unquam audire queam. 
In Mathematicis parum adhuc profeci : utpote 
qui perarduum certamen cum eruditissimis 
quibusque in veterum Unguis et moribus ver- 
satis jamjam sim initurus. 

His in studiis pro mea perbrevi sane et tan- 



S9 



quam hesterna consuetudine haud mediocriter 
sum versatus. 

Latine minus eleganter scribere videor quam 
Graece : neque vero eadem voluptate scriptores 
Latinos lectito quam Graecos : cum autem om- 
nem industrial meae vim Romanis litteris con- 
tulerim, haud dubito quin faciles mihi et 
propitias eas faciam. 

Te etiam revocatum velim ad haec elegantia 
deliciasque litterarum. Quid enim accommo- 
datius videri potest aut ad animum quotidian- 
is cuds laboribusque oppressum rehciendum 
et recreandum, aut ad mentem et facultates 
ingenii acuendas, quam exquisita et expolita 
summaque vi et acumine ingenii elaborata 
veterum scriptorum opera ? 



TO HIS BROTHER JAMES. 



St. John's, Nov. 1805. 



MY DEAR JAMES, 



You do not know how anxious I am to hear 
how you go on in all things ; and whether you 
still persist in steadfastness and seriousness. 
I know, my dear lad, that your heart is too 
good to run into actual vice, yet I fear the 
example of gay and wicked persons may lead 
you to think lightly of religion, and then who 
knows where it may end ? Neville, however, 
will always be your director, and 1 trust you 
conceal none, even of your very thoughts, 
from him. Continue, James, to solicit the fa- 
therly superintendence of your Maker, night 
and morning. I shall not fear for you, while 
I am assured you do this fervently, and not in 
a hurried or slovenly manner. With constant 
prayer, we have nothing to fear from the 
temptations of the world, the flesh, and the 
devil : God will bring us through it, and will 
save us in the midst of peril. If we consider 
the common condition of man's life, and the 
evils and misfortunes to which we are daily 
exposed, we have need to bless God every mo- 
ment for sparing us, and to beg of him, that 
when the day of misfortune comes, (and come it 
must, sooner or later, to all,) we may be pre- 
pared with Christian fortitude to endure the 
shock. What a treasure does the religious 
man possess in this, that when every thing 
else fails, he has God for his refuge ; and can 
look to a world where he is sure, through 
Christ Jesus, that he will not be disappointed .' 

I do not much herd to what place of 



40 



H. K. 



worship you may go, so as you are but a 
serious and regular attendant. Permit me, 
however, to explain the true nature of the 
question with regard to the church liturgy, in 
order that you may be the better able to judge. 



You know from the epistles of St. Paul, 
that soon after the death of Jesus Christ, there 
were regular churches established in various 
places, as at Corinth, Galatia, Thessalonica, 
&c, &c. Now, we are not certain that they 
used forms of prayer at all in these churches, 
much more that any part of ours was used in 
their time ; but it is certain, that in the year 
of our Lord 286 there was a general liturgy 
in use throughout all the churches of Christ. 
Now, if in that early time, when Christians 
were much more like the apostles than they 
are now, they used a form of prayer in the 
churches, it is fair to conclude that the prac- 
tice was not unscriptural ; besides, at this 
very time, St. John the Evangelist had not 
been dead above 100 years, and one of his dis- 
ciples, though at a very great age, was actually 
living. St. Chrysostom, who lived above 354 
years after Christ, wrote some of our prayers, 
and the greater part of them have been in 
general use for a thousand years. About the 
year 286, about one thousand five hundred 
years ago, immense multitudes of savages, the 
Goths and Vandals, being enticed, by the 
fertility of the Italian country, and the riches 
of its possessors, came down from Germany, 
Hungary, and all the northern parts of Europe, 
upon the Roman empire, then enfeebled with 
luxury, and endeavoured to gain possession 
of the south. They were at first repulsed; 
but as fast as they were defeated or slain, new 
hordes, allured by the accounts which their 
countrymen gave of its opulence and abun- 
dance, succeeded in their stead, till the forces 
of the Romans grew unequal to the contest, 
and gradually gave way to the invaders, who, 
wherever they came, reduced every thing to a 
state of barbarism. The Christians, about 
this time, were beginning to prevail in the 
Roman territories, and under the Emperor 
Constantine, who was the first Christian king, 
were giving the blow to idolatry. But the 
savage intolerance of the invaders, who re- 
duced the conquered to abject slavery, burned 
books wherever they found them, and even 
forbade the cultivation of learning, reduced 
them to the utmost distress. At this time 
they wrote, and used in their churches, all 
that part of the Litany which begins with the 
Lord's prayer, and ends with the prayer of St. 
Chrysostom. Thus you see how venerably 
ancient are many of our forms, and how little 
they merit that contempt which ignorant 



WHITE'S 

people pour upon them. Very holy men (men 
now, we have every reason to believe, in hea- 
ven) composed them, and they have been used 
from age to age ever since, in our churches, with 
but few alterations. But you will say they 
were used by the Roman Catholics, who are 
a very superstitious and bigotted set of people. 
This is no objection at all, because the Roman 
Catholics were not always so bad, and what 
is a proof of this is, that there once was , no 
other religion in the world ; and we cannot 
think that church very wicked, which God 
chose, once, to make the sole guardian of his 
truth. There have been many excellent and 
pious men among the Roman Catholics, even 
at the time their public faith was corrupted. 



You may have heard of the Reformation ; 
you know it was brought about by Luther 
and Calvin, in the sixteenth century, about 
1536. Now, Calvin is the founder of the sect 
of Independents, such as those who meet at 
Castlegate, yet he had a hand in framing 
the liturgy, which, with alterations, we now 
use, and he selected it in part from the liturgy 
of the Roman Church ; because they had 
received it from the primitive Christians, who 
were more immediately taught by the apostles. 
The Reformation means that change in religion, 
which was brought about, as said before, by 
Luther and Calvin, in consequence of the 
abuses and errors which had crept into the 
Romish Church. 

You may possibly think the responses, or 
answers of the clerk and people, rather ridicu- 
lous.— This absurdity, however, generally 
consists more in the manner than in the thing. 
They were intended to be pronounced aloud 
by the people, and were used as a means to 
keep their attention awake, and show their 
sincerity. At the time this form was invented, 
not one man in five or six hundred could read ; 
and these repetitions answered another pur- 
pose, of fixing important ejaculations and 
sentences in their minds. In these days the 
same necessity does not exist ; but we still 
retain the form on account of its other advan- 
tages, and through reverence of such an anti- 
quity, as almost vouches for its being accepta- 
ble to God, who has permitted it to be used by 
the wisest and best of men for so long a period. 



I think I have now nearly tired you. 
write to me soon, and believe me, 



Pray 



My dear James, 
Your very affectionate brother, 
H. K. WHITE. 



LETTERS. 



41 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 



St. John's College, Cambridge, 
Nov. 10. 1805. 



MY DEAR BEN, 



The reasons why I said mathematical 
studies did not agree with me, were these — 
that I am more inclined to classical pursuits, 
and that, considering what disadvantages I 
lie under in being deaf, I am afraid I cannot 
excel in them. I have at present entirely laid 
them aside, as I am reading for the university 
scholarship, which will soon be vacant : there 
are expected to be 13 or 14 candidates, some 
of whom are of great note from Eton ; and I 
have as much expectation of gaining it, as of 
being elected supreme magus over the myste- 
ries of Mithra. The scholarship is of no value 
in itself adequate to the labour of reading for 
it, but it is the greatest classical honour in the 
university, and is a pretty sure road to a fel- 
lowship. My classical abilities here have 
attracted some attention, and my Latin 
Themes, in particular, have drawn forth in- 
quiries from the tutors as to the place of 
my education. The reason why 1 have deter- 
mined to sit for the scholarship is this, that 
to have simply been a candidate for it 
establishes a man's character, as many of 
the first classics in the university have failed 
of it. 



I begin now to feel at home in my little room, 
and I wish you were here to see how snugly I 
sit by my blazing fire in the cold evenings. 
College certainly has charms, though I have a 
few things rankling at my heart which will 
not let me be quite happy. — Ora, Ora, pro me. 

This last sentence of mine is of a very 
curious tendency, to be sure : for who is there 
of mortals who has not something rankling 
at his heart, which will not let him be happy ? 

It is curious to observe the different estima- 
tions two men make of one another's happi- 
ness. Each of them surveys the external 
appearances of the other's situation, and, com- 
paring them with the secret disquieting cir- 
cumstances of his own, thinks him happier ; 
and so it is that all the world over, be we 
favoured as we may, there is always some- 
thing which others have, and which we our- 
selves have not, necessary to the completion of 
our felicity. I think therefore, upon the 
whole, there is no such thing as positive hap- 



piness in this world; and a man can only be 
deemed felicitous, as he is in comparison less 
affected with positive evil. It is our business, 
therefore, to support ourselves under existing 
ills, with the anticipation of future blessings. 
Life, with all its bitters, is a draught soon 
drunk ; and though we have many changes to 
fear on this side the grave, beyond it we know 
of none. 

Your life and mine are now marked out ; and 
our calling is of such a nature, that it ill be- 
comes us to be too much affected with cir- 
cumstances of an external nature. It is our 
duty to bear our evils with dignified silence. 
Considering our superior consolations, they 
are small in comparison with those of others ; 
and though they may cast a sadness both over 
our hearts and countenances, which time may 
not easily remove, yet they must not interfere 
with our active duties, nor affect our conduct 
towards others, except by opening our heart 
with warmer sympathy to their woes, their 
wants, and miseries. 

As you have begun in your religious path, 
my beloved friend, persevere. Let your love 
to the Crucified continue as pure as it was at 
first, while your zeal is more tempered, and 
your piety more rational and mature. 1 hope 
yet to live to see you a pious and respected 
parish priest ; as for me— I hope I shall do my 
duty as I have strength and ability, and I hope 
I shall always continue, what I now profess 
myself, 

Your friend and brother, 

H. K. WHITE. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, Cambridge, 10th Dec. 1805. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 

I am so truly hurt that you should again 
complain of my long silence, that 1 cannot re- 
frain from sending this by the post, although 
I shall send you a parcel to-morrow. The 
reason of my not having sent you the cravats 
sooner, is the difficulty I have found in get- 
ting them together, since part were in the 
hands of my laundress, and part dirty. I do 
not know whether you will find them right, as 
my linen is in other respects deficient, and I 
have a cause at issue with my washerwoman 
on that score. This place is literally a den of 
thieves ; my bed-maker, whom we call a gyp, 
from a Greek word signifying a vulture, runs 
away with every thing he can lay his hands 
F 



42 



H. K« WHITE'S 



on, and when he is caught, says he only bor- 
rows them. He stole a sack of coals a-week, as 
regularly as the week came, when first I had 
fires ; but I have stopped the run of this busi- 
ness, by a monstrous large padlock, which is 
hung to the staple of the bin. His next trick 
was to bring me four candles for a pound 
instead of six ; and this trade he carried on 
for some time, until I accidentally discovered 
the trick : he then said he had always brought 
me right until that time, and that then he had 
brought mefives, but had given Mr. H. (a man 
on the same staircase) one, because he thought 
he understood I had borrowed one of him ; on 
inquiring of Mr. H. he had not given him one 
according to his pretence : but the gentleman 
was not caught yet, for he declared he had 
lent one to the bed- maker of Lord B. in the 
rooms below. His neatest trick is going to 
the grocer every now and then for articles in 
your name, which he converts to his own use. 
I have stopped him here too, by keeping a 
checkbook. Tea, sugar, and pocket-handker- 
chiefs, are his natural perquisites, and I verily 
believe he will soon be filling his canister 
out of mine before my face. There is no 
redress for all this ; for if you change, you are 
no better off: they are all alike. They know 
you regard them as a pack of thieves, and 
their only concern is to steal so dexterously 
that they may not be confronted with direct 
proof. 



Do not be surprised at any apparent negli- 
gence in my letters : my time has so many 
calls for it, that half my duties are neglected. 
Our college examination comes on next 
Tuesday, and it is of the utmost moment that 
I acquit myself well there. A month after 
will follow the scholarship examination. My 
time, therefore, at present, will scarcely per- 
mit the performance of my promise with res- 
pect to the historical papers, but I have them 
in mind, and I am much bent on perfecting 
them in a manner superior to their commence- 
ment. 

I would fain write to my brother James, 
who must by no means think I forget him ; 
but 1 fear 1 shall see him before I write to 
him on the accounts above stated. The 
examination for the scholarship is distinct 
from that of our college, which is a very impor- 
tant one ; and while I am preparing for the 
one, I necessarily neglect the other. 



I wish very much to hear from you on 
religious topics ; and remember, that although 
my leisure at present will not allow me to 



write to you all I wish, yet it will be the 
highest gratification to me to read your letters, 
especially when they relate to your Christian 
progress. I beseech you not to relax, as you 
value your peace of mind, and the repose of a 
dying bed. I wish you would take in the 
Christian Observer, which is a cheap work, 
and will yield you much profitable amusement. 
I have it here for nothing, and can send you 
up some of the numbers if you like. 

Remember, and let my mother know, that I 
have no chance for the university scholar- 
ship, and that I only sit for the purpose of 
letting the university know that I am a decent 
proficient in the languages. 

There is one just vacant which I can cer- 
tainly get, but 1 should be obliged to go to 
Peter-house in consequence, which will not 
be advisable, — but I must make inquiries 
about it. I speak with certainty on this sub- 
ject, because it is restricted to candidates who 
are in their first year, amongst whom I should 
probably be equal to any. The others are 
open to bachelors. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, December 16th, 1805. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 

In consequence of an alteration in my plans, 
I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the 
latter end of this week, and I wish you so to 
inform my aunt. The reason of this change is 
this, that I have over-read myself, and I find 
it absolutely necessary to take some relaxa- 
tion, and to give up study entirely, for a short 
time, in order that I may go on better here- 
after. 

This has been occasioned by our college 
lectures, which I had driven too late, on 
account of my being occupied in preparations 
for the university scholarship examination, 
and then I was obliged to fag so hard for the 
college lectures, as the time drew on, that I 
could take no exercise. Thus I soon knocked 
myself up, and I now labour under a great 
general relaxation, and much nervous weak- 
ness. 

Change of air and place will speedily re- 
move these symptoms, and I slnll certainly 
give up the university scholarship, rather 
than injure my health. 



LETTERS. 

Do not mention these things to my mother, 
as she will make it a cause of unnecessary un- 
easiness. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, December 19th, 1805. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 

I was sorry to receive your letter, desiring me 
to defer my journey; and I am sorry to be forced 
to tell you the reason of my coming to town 
sooner than you wish me. I have had an attack 
of my old nervous complaint, and my spirits 
have been so wretchedly shattered, that my 
surgeon says I shall never be well till I have 
removed somewhere, where I can have society 
and amusement. It is a very distressing thing 
to be ill in college, where you have no attend- 
ance, and very little society. Mr. Catton, my 
tutor, has prevailed upon me, by pressing 
wishes, to go into the hall to be examined with 
the men of my year : — I have gone through two 
examinations, and I have one to come ; after 
that is over, he told me 1 had better go to my 
friends directly, and relieve myself with com- 
plete relaxation from study. Under these cir- 
cumstances, the object of myjourney to London 
will be answered, by the mere residence in my 
aunt's family, and by a cessation from reading. 
While I am here, I am wretched; I cannot 
read, the slightest application makes me faint; 
I have very little society, and that is quite a 
force upon my friends. I am determined, 
therefore, to leave this place on Saturday 
morning, and you may rest satisfied that the 
purpose of my journey will be fully accom- 
plished by the prattle of my aunt's little ones, 
and her care. I am not an invalid, since I 
have no sickness or ailment, but I am weak 
and low-spirited, and unable to read. The 
last is the greatest calamity I can experience 
of a worldly nature. My mind preys upon it- 
self. Had it not been for Leeson, of Clare 
Hall, I could not have gone through this week. 
I have been examined twice, and almost with- 
out looking over the subjects, and I have given 
satisfaction ; but [ am obliged to be kept up 
by strong medicines to endure this exertion, 
which is very great. 

1 am happy, however, to tell you, I am bet- 
ter ; and Mr. Parish, the surgeon, says, a few 
days will re-establish me when I get into an- 
other scene, and into societv. 



43 
TO HIS MOTHER. 

London. December 24th. 1805. 



MY DEAR MOTHER, 

You will, no doubt, have been surprised at 
not having heard from me for so long a time, 
and you will be no less so to find that I am 
writing this at my aunt's in this far-famed city. 
1 have been so much taken up with our col« 
lege examinations of late, that I could not find 
time to write even to you, and I am now come 
to town, in order to give myself every relaxa- 
tion and amusement I can ; for I had read so 
much at Cambridge, that my health was rather 
affected, and I was advised to give myself the 
respite of a week or a fortnight, in order to re- 
cover strength. I arrived in town on Satur- 
day night, and should have written yesterday, 
in order to remove any uneasiness you might 
feel on my account, but there is no post on 
Sunday. 

I have now to communicate some agreeable 
intelligence to you. Last week being the close 
of the Michaelmas term, and our college ex- 
amination, our tutor, who is a very great man, 
sent for me, and told me he was sorry to hear 
I had been ill : he understood I was low- 
spirited, and wished to know whether I 
frightened myself about college expenses. I 
told him, that they did contribute some little 
to harass me, because I was as yet uncertain 
what the bills of my first year would amount 
to. His answer was to this purpose: — " Mr. 
White, I beg you will not trouble yourself on 
this subject : your emoluments will be very 
great, very great indeed, and I will take care 
your expenses are not very burthensome. — 
Leave that to me!" He advised me to go to 
my friends, and amuse myself with a total ces- 
sation from reading. After our college ex- 
amination (which lasted six days) was over, 
he sent for me again, and repeated what he 
had said before about the expenses of the col- 
lege ; and he added, that if I went on as I had 
begun, and made myself a good scholar, 1 
might rely on being provided for by the col- 
lege ; for if the county should be full, and they 
could not elect me a fellow, they would recom- 
mend me to another college, where they would 
be glad to receive a clever man from their 
hands ; or, at all events, they could always get 
a young man a situation as a private tutor in 
a nobleman's family : or could put him in 
some handsome way of preferment. " We 
make it a rule (he said) of providing for a 
clever man, whose fortune is small ; and you 
may therefore rest assured, Mr. White, that, 



4* 



H. K. WHITE'S 



after you have taken your degree, you will be 
provided with a genteel competency by the 
college." He begged I would be under no ap- 
prehensions on these accounts : he shook 
hands with me very affectionately, and wished 
me a speedy recovery. These attentions from 
a man like the tutor of St. John's are very 
marked; and Mr. Catton is well known for 
doing more than he says. I am sure, after 
these assurances from a principal of so respec- 
table a society as St. John's, I have nothing 
more to fear ; and I hope you will never re- 
pine on my account again :— according to every 
appearance, my lot in life is certain. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

London, Xmas, 1805. 
MY DEAR BEN, 

You would have had no reason to complain 
of my long silence, had I preferred my self- 
justification to your ease. I wrote you a let- 
ter, which now lies in my drawer at St. John's, 
but in such a weak state of body, and in so 
-desponding and comfortless a tone of mind, 
that I knew it would give you pain, and there- 
fore I chose not to send it. I have indeed 
been ill ; but, thanks to God, I am recovered. 
My nerves were miserably shattered by over- 
application, and the absence of all that could 
amuse, and the presence of many things which 
weighed heavy upon my spirits. When I 
found myself too ill to read, and too despond- 
ing to endure my own reflections, I discovered 
that it is really a miserable thing to be desti- 
tute of the soothing and supporting hand 
when nature most needs it. I wandered up 
and down from one man's room to another, 
and from one college to another, imploring so- 
ciety, a little conversation, and a little relief 
of the burthen which pressed upon my spirits ; 
and I am sorry to say, that those who, when I 
was cheerful and lively, sought my society 
with avidity, now, when I actually needed 
conversation, were too busy to grant it. Our 
college examination was then approaching, 
and I perceived with anguish that I had read 
for the university scholarship, until I had 
barely time to get up our private subjects, and 
that as I was now too ill to read, all hope of 
getting through the examination with decent 
respectability was at an end. This was an 
additional grief. I went to our tutor, with 
tears in my eyes, and told him I must absent 
myself from the examination,— a step which 
Would have precluded me from a station 



amongst the prize-men until the second year. 
He earnestly entreated me to run the risk. 
My surgeon gave me strong stimulants and 
supporting medicines during the examination 
week, and I passed, I believe, one of the most 
respectable examinations amongst them. As 
soon as ever it was o>er, I left Cambridge, by 
the advice of my surgeon and tutor, and I feel 
myself now pretty strong. 1 have given up 
the thought of sitting for the university scholar- 
ship in consequence of my illness, as the 
course of my reading was effectually broken. 
In this place I have been much amused, and 
have been received with an attention in the 
literary circles which I neither expected nor 
deserved. But this does not affect me as it 
once would have done : my views are widely 
altered ; and I hope that I shall in time learn 
to lay my whole heart at the foot of the cross. 

I have only one thing more to tell you of 
about my illness ; it is, that I have found in a 
young man, with whom I had a little acquaint- 
ance, that kind care and attention, which I 
looked for in vain from those who professed 
themselves my nearest friends. At a time 
when * * * could not find leisure 
to devote a single evening to his sick friend, 
even when he earnestly implored it, Wil- 
liam Leeson constantly, and even against 
my wishes, devoted every evening to the re- 
lieving of my melancholy, and the enlivening 
of my solitary hours. With the most constant 
and affectionate assiduity, he gave me my 
medicines, administered consolation to my 
spirits, and even put me to bed. 






TO MR. P. THOMPSON. 

London, 1st January, 1806. 
SIR, 

1 owe it both to my feelings and my duty, that 
I should thank you for the kind inquiries you 
have thought it worth while to make concern- 
ing me and my affairs. I have just learned 
the purport of a letter received from you by 
Mr. Robinson, the bookseller; and it is a 
pleasing task to me, at the same time that I 
express my sense of your benevolent concern 
in my behalf, to give you, myself, the infor- 
mation you require. 

The little volume which, considered as the 
production of a very young man, may have in- 
terested you, has not had a very great sale, 



although it may have had as much countenance 
as it deserved. The last report I received 
from the publishers, was 450 sold. So far it 
has answered the expectations I had formed 
from it, that it has procured me the acquaint- 
ance, and, perhaps, I may say, the friendship 
of men equally estimable for their talents and 
their virtues. Rewarded by their counte- 
nance, I am by no means dissatisfied with my 
little book ; indeed I think its merits have, on 
the whole, rather been over-rated than other- 
wise, -which I attribute to the lenity so readily 
afforded to the faults of youth, and to the 
promptitude with which benevolent minds 
give encouragement where encouragement 
seems to be wanted. 

With regard to my personal concerns, I have 
succeeded in placing myself at Cambridge, 
and have already kept one term. My college 
is St. John's, where, in the rank of Sizar, I 
shall probably be enabled to live almost inde- 
pendently of external support : but should I 
need that support, I have it in my power to 
draw on a friend, whose name I am not per- 
mitted to mention, for any sum not exceeding 
£30 per annum. With habits of frugality, I 
shall never need this sum : so that I am quite 
at ease with respect to my college expenses, 
and am at full leisure to pursue my studies 
with a free and vacant mind. 

I am at present in the great city, where I 
have come, in consequence of a little injudi- 
cious application, a suitor to health, variety,, 
and amusement. In a few days I shall return 
to Cambridge, where (should you ever pass 
that way) I hope you will not forget that 
I reside there three-fourths of the year. It 
would, indeed, give me pleasure to say person- 
ally how much I am obliged by your inquiries. 

I hope you will put a favourable construc- 
tion both on the minuteness and the length of 
this letter, and permit me to subscribe myself, 
Sir, 
Very thankfully and obediently, 
Yours, 

H. K. WHITE. 



TO HIS AUNT. 

St. John's, Cambridge, Jan. 6th, 1806. 
MY DEAR AUNT, 

I am at length once more settled in my 
rooms at Cambridge ; but I am grown so idle, 



LETTERS. 45 

and so luxurious, since 1 have been under 
your hands, that I cannot read with half m y 
usual diligence. 



I hope you concluded the Christmas holi- 
days on Monday evening with the customary 
glee ; and I hope my uncle was well enough 
to partake of your merriment. You must now 
begin your penitential days, after so much riot 
and feasting; and, with your three little 
prattlers around you, I am sure your evenings 
will flow pleasantly by your own fire-side. 
Visiting and gayety are very well by way of 
change ; but there is no enjoyment so lasting 
as that of one's own family. Elizabeth will 
soon be old enough to amuse you with her 
conversation ; and, I trust, you will take every 
opportunity of teaching her to put the right 
value on things, and to exercise her own good 
sense. It is amazing how soon a child may 
become a real comfort to its mother, and how 
much even young minds will form habits of 
affection towards those who treat them like 
reasonable beings, capable of seeing the right 
and the wrong of themselves. A very little 
girl may be made to understand that there are 
some things which are pleasant and amusing, 
which are still less worthy of attention than 
others more disagreeable and painful. Chil- 
dren are, in general, fond of little ornaments 
of dress, especially females ; and though we 
may allow them to be elevated with their 
trifling splendors, yet we should not forget 
to remind them, that, although people may 
admire their dress, yet they will admire them 
much more for their good sense, sweetness of 
temper, and generosity of disposition. Chil- 
dren are very quick-sighted to discern whether 
you approve of them, and they are very proud 
of your approbation when they think you be- 
stow it : we should therefore be careful how 
we praise them, and for what. If we praise 
their dress it should be slightly, and as if it 
were a matter of very small importance ; but we 
should never let any mark of consideration, or 
goodness of heart, in a child, pass by, without 
some token of approbation. Still we must 
never praise a child too much, nor too warmly, 
for that would beget vanity : and when praise 
is moderately yet judiciously bestowed, a 
child values it more, because it feels that it is 
just. I don't like punishments. You will 
never torture a child into duty ; but a sensible 
child will dread the frown of a judicious 
mother, more than all the rods, dark rooms, 
and scolding school-mistresses in the universe. 
We should teach our children to make friends 
of us, to communicate all their thoughts to us ; 
and while their innocent prattle will amuse 



46 



H. K. WHITE'S 



us, wc bhall find many opportunities of teach- 
ing them important truths, almost without 
knowing it. 

I admire all your little ones, and I hope to 
see Elizabeth one day an accomplished and 
sensible girl. Give my love to them, and tell 
them not to forget their cousin Henry, who 
wants a housekeeper at college ! 

Though I have written so long a letter, I am, 
indeed, offended with you, and 1 dare say you 
know the reason very well. 



P. S. Whenever you are disposed to write 
a letter, think of me. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. John's, February 17th, 1806. 



Do not think 1 am reading hard : I believe 
it is all over with that. I have had a recur- 
rence of my old complaint within this last 
four or five days, which has half unnerved me 
for every thing. The state of my health is 
really miserable ; I am well and lively in the 
morning, and overwhelmed with nervous 
horrors in the evening. I do not know how 
to proceed with regard to my studies : — a very 
slight over-stretch of the mind in the day-time 
occasions me not only a sleepless night, but a 
night of gloom and horror. The systole and 
diastole of my heart seem to be playing at 
ball — the stake, my life. I can only say the 
game is not yet decided : — I allude to the 
violence of the palpitation. 

1 am going to mount the Gog-magog hills 
this morning, inquest of a good night's sleep. 
The Gog-magog hills for my body, and the 
Bible for my mind, are my only medicines. 
I am sorry to say, that neither are quite ade- 
quate. Cui, igitur ; dandum est vitio? Mihi 
prorsus. I hope, as the summer comes, my 
spirits (which have been with the swallows a 
winter's journey) will come with it When 
my spirits are restored, my health will be re- 
stored : — the fons mali lies there. Give me 
serenity and equability of mind, and all will 
be well there. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, 11th March, 1806. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 



I hope you read Mason on Self-knowledge 
now and then. It is a useful book; and it 
will help you greatly in framing your spirit to 
the ways of humility, piety, and peace. Read- 
ing, occasional meditation, and constant 
prayer, will infallibly guide you to happiness, 
as far as we can be happy here ; and will help 
you on your way to that blessed abode, where 
I hope, ardently hope, we shall all meet here- 
after in the assembly of the saints. Go coolly 
and deliberately, but determinately, to the 
work of your salvation. Do nothing here in a 
hurry; deliberate upon every thing; take 
your steps cautiously, yet with a simple re- 
liance on the mercy of your God and Saviour ; 
and wherever you see your duty lie, lose no 
time in acting up to it. This is the only way 
to arrive at comfort in your Christian career ; 
and the constant observance of this maxim 
will, with the assistance of God, smooth your 
way with quietness and repose, even to the 
brink of eternity, and beyond the gulph that 
bounds it. 

I had almost dropped the idea of seeing 
Nottingham this next long vacation, as my 
stay in Cambridge may be importantly useful; 
but I think now, I shall go down for my 
health's, and more particularly for my mother's 
sake, whom my presence will comfort, and 
perhaps help. I shall be glad to moor all my 
family in the harbour of religious trust, and in 
the calm seas of religious peace. These con- 
cerns are apt, at times, to escape me ; but they 
now press much upon my heart ; and I think 
it is my first duty to see that my family are 
safe in the most important of all affairs. 



TO THE REV. J. PLUMBTRE. 

St. John's, March 12th, 1806. 
DEAR SIR, 

I hope you will excuse the long delay 
which I have made in sending the song. 1 am 
afraid I have trespassed on your patience, if 
indeed so unimportant a subject can have 
given you any thought at all. If you think it 
worth while to send the song to your publish- 
er, I should prefer the omission of the writer's 
name, as the insertion of it would only be a 



piece of idle' ostentation, and answer no 
end. My name will neither give credit to 
the verses, nor the verses confer honour on 
my name. 

It will give me great pleasure to hear that 
your labours have been successful in the town 
of * * *, where, I fear, much is to be 
done. I am one of those who think that the 
love of virtue is not sufficient to make a vir- 
tuous man ; for the love of virtue is a mere 
mental preference of the beautiful to the de- 
formed; and we see but too often that immediate 
gratification outweighs the dictates of our judg- 
ment. If men could always perform their duty 
as well as they can discern it, or if they would 
attend to their real interests as well as they 
can see them, there would be little occasion 
for moral instruction. Sir Richard Steele, 
who wrote like a saint, and who, in his 
Christian Hero, shows the strongest marks 
of a religious and devout heart, lived, not- 
withstanding all this, a drunkard and a de- 
bauchee. And what can be the cause of this 
apparent contradiction? Was it that he had 
not strength of mind to act up to his views ? 
Then a man's salvation may depend on 
strength of intellect ! ! Or does not this rather 
show that superior motives are wanting? 
That assistance is yet necessary, when the 
ablest of men has done his utmost ? If then 
such aid be necessary, how can it be obtain- 
ed ? — by a virtuous life ? — Surely not : be- 
cause, to live really a virtuous life, implies 
this aid to have been first given. We are 
told in Scripture how it may be attained, 
namely, by humble trust in the Lord Jesus 
Christ, as our atoning sacrifice. This, there- 
fore, is the foundation of religious life, and as 
such, ought to be the fundamental principle of 
religious instruction. This is the test of our 
obedience, the indispensable preliminary be- 
fore we can enjoy the favour of God. What, 
therefore, can we urge with more propriety 
from the pulpit than faith ? — to preach 
morality does not include the principle of 
faith — to preach faith includes every branch 
of morality, at the same time that it affords it 
its present sanctions and its strongest in- 
citements. 

I am afraid I have trespassed on your pa- 
tience, and I must beg of you to excuse the 
badness of the writing, for which I have the 
plea of illness. I hope your health is yet firm, 
and that God will in mercy prosper your en- 
deavours for the good of your flock. 
I am, dear Sir, 

Very respectfully yours, 
H. K. WHITE. 



LETTERS. 47 

TO HIS MOTHER. 

St. John's, Cambridge, April, 1806. 



DEAR MOTHER, 



I am quite unhappy to see you so anxious on 
my account, and also that you should think 
me neglectful of you. Believe me, my dear 
mother, my thoughts are often with you. 
Never do I lay myself on my bed, before you 
have all passed before me in my prayers ; and 
one of my first earthly wishes is to make you 
comfortable, and provide that rest and quiet 
for your mind which you so much need : and 
never fear but I shall have it in my power 
some time or other. My prospects wear a 
flattering appearance. I shall be almost sure 
of a fellowship somewhere or other, and then, 
if I get a curacy in Cambridge, I shall have a 
clear income of £170 per annum, besides my 
board and lodging, perhaps more. If I do not 
reside in Cambridge, I shall have some quiet 
parsonage, where you may come and spend 
the summer months. Maria and Kate will 
then be older, and you will be less missed. 
On all accounts you have much reason to in- 
dulge happier dreams. My health is consid- 
erably better. Only do you take as much care 
of yours as I do of mine, and all will be well. 
I exhort, and entreat, and beseech you, as you 
love me, and all your children, that you will 
take your bitters without ceasing. As you 
wish me to pay regard to your exhortations, 
attend to this. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 



St. John's, April, 1806. 



DEAR MOTHER, 



I am a good deal surprised at not having 
heard from you in answer to my last. You 
will be surprised to hear the purport of my 
present letter, which is no less than that I shall 
spend the ensuing Easter vacation in Notting- 
ham. The reasons which have induced me to 
make this so wide an alteration in my plan, 
are these : I have had some symptoms of the 
return of my old complaint, and both my doc- 
tor and tutor think I had better take a fort- 
night's relaxation at home. I hope you will 
not think I have neglected exercise since I 



48 



H. K. WHITE'S 



have taken more this term than I ever did be- 
fore ; but I shall enlarge my hours of recrea- 
tion still more, since I find it necessary, for my 
health's sake, so to do. 

You need not give yourself any uneasiness 
as to my health, for I am quite recovered. I 
was chiefly afflicted with sleeplessness and 
palpitations of the heart, which symptoms have 
now disappeared, and I am quite restored to 
my former good health. My journey will re- 
establish me completely, and it will give me 
no small pleasure to see you after so long an 
absence from home. I shall be very idle while 
I am at Nottingham ; I shall only amuse my- 
self with teaching Maria and Kate. 



(supposed to be addressed) 

TO MRS. WEST. 

I have stolen your first volume of Letters 
from the chimney-piece of a college friend, 
and I have been so much pleased both with 
the spirit, conduct, and style of the work, that 
1 cannot refrain from writing to tell you so. I 
shall read the remaining volumes immediately ; 
but as I am at this moment just in that desul- 
tory mood when a man can best write a letter, 
I have determined not to delay what, if I de- 
fer at all, I shall probably not do at all. 

Well, then, my dear Madam, although I 
have insidiously given you to understand, that 
I write to tell you how much I approve your 
work, I will be frank enough to tell you like- 
wise, that I think, in one point, it is faulty : 
and that, if I had not discovered what I con- 
sider to be a defect in the book, I should pro- 
bably not have written for the mere purpose of 
declaiming on its excellencies. 

Start not, Madam ; it is in that very point 
whereon you have bestowed most pains, that 
I think the work is faulty — Religion. If I 
mistake not, there will be some little confu- 
sion of idea detected, if we examine this part 
narrowly ; and as I am not quite idle enough 
to write my opinions without giving the rea- 
sons for them, I will endeavour to explain why 
I think so. 

Religion, then, Madam, I conceive to be the 
service a creature owes to his Creator ; and I 
take it for granted, that service implies some 
self-denial, and some labour ; for if it did not 
involve something unpleasing to ourselves, it 



would be a duty we should all of necessity per- 
form. Well, then, if religion call for self-de- 
nial, there must be some motive to induce men 
voluntarily to undergo such privations as may 
be consequent on a religious life, and those 
motives must be such as affect either the pre- 
sent state of existence, or some future state of 
existence. Certainly, then, those motives 
which arise from the expectation of a future 
state of existence, must, in reality, be infinite- 
ly more important than those which are found- 
ed in temporal concerns, although, to man- 
kind, the immediate presence of temporal 
things may outweigh the distant apprehension 
of the future. Granting, therefore, that the 
future world is the main object of our religious 
exercises, it will follow that they are the most 
important concerns, of a man's life, and that 
every other consideration is light and trifling 
in the comparison. For the world to come is 
everlasting, while the present world is but 
very short. Foolish, then, indeed, and short- 
sighted must that creature be, which can prefer 
the conveniencies and accommodations of the 
present to the happiness of the eternal future. 

All Christians, therefore, who undertake to 
lay down a chart for the young and inexperi- 
enced, by which they may steer with security 
through the ocean of life, will be expected to 
make religion a prominent feature on the can- 
vass ; and that, too, not only by giving it a 
larger space, but by enforcing the superiority 
of this consideration to every other. Now this 
is what I humbly conceive you have not alto- 
gether done ; and I think, indeed, if 1 be com- 
petent to judge, you have failed in two points; 
■ — in making religion only a subordinate con- 
sideration to a young man, and in not defining 
distinctly the essentials of religion. 

I would ask you, then, in what way you so 
impress religion on the mind of your son, as 
one would expect that person would impress 
it who was conscious that it was of the first 
importance. Do you instruct him to turn oc- 
casionally, when his leisure may permit, to 
pious and devout meditation? Do you direct 
him to make religion the one great aim and 
end of his being ? Do you exhort him to fre- 
quent, private, and earnest prayer to the Spirit 
of Holiness, that he would sanctify all his do- 
ings ? Do you teach him that the praise or the 
censure, the admiration or the contempt of the 
world, is of little importance, so as his heart 
be right before the Great Judge ? Do you tell 
him that, as his reason now opens, he should 
gradually withdraw from the gayer and occa- 
sionally more unlicensed diversions of the 
world— the ball-room, the theatre, and the 
public concert, in order that he may abstract 



his mind more from the too-fascinating de- 
lights of life, and fit himself for the new scene 
of existence, which will, sooner or later, open 
upon his view ? No, Madam, I think you do 
not do this. You tell him there is a deal of 
enthusiasm in persons who, though they mean 
well, are over-strict in their religious perform- 
ances. You tell him, that assemblies, dances, 
theatres, are elegant amusements, though you 
couple the fine arts with them, which I am 
sorry to see in such company. I, too, am en- 
thusiastically attached to the fine arts. Poetry, 
painting, and music, are amongst my most de- 
licious and chastest pleasures ; and happy in- 
deed do I feel when I can make even these 
contribute to the great end, and draw my soul 
from its sphere, to fix it on its Maker and Re- 
deemer. I am fond, too, of tragedy, and 
though I do not find it with so much purity 
and chastity in Shakspeare as in the old Greek 
dramatists, yet I know how to appreciate its 
beauties in him too. Besides these, I have a 
thousand other amusements of the most refined 
nature, without either theatres, balls, or card- 
tables. The theatre is not in itself an immoral 
institution, but in its present state it is : and I 
feel much for an uncorrupted, frank lad of 
fourteen, who is permitted to visit this stew of 
licentiousness, impudence, and vice. Your 
plan seems to me this : — Teach a boy to lead 
an honest, upright life, and to do his duty, 
and he will gain the good will of God by the 
very tenor of his actions. This is, indeed, an 
easy kind of religion, for it involves no self-de- 
nial; but true religion does involve self-denial. 
The inference is obvious. I say it involves no 
self-denial ; because a well-educated sensible 
lad will see so many inconveniences in vicious 
indulgences, that he will choose the virtuous by 
a natural effort of the understanding ; and so, 
according to this system, he will ensure hea- 
ven by the soundness of his policy and the rec- 
titude of his understanding. 

Admitting this to be a truedoctrine, Christi- 
anity has been of no material service to man- 
kind ; and the Son of God might have spared 
his blood ; for the heathens knew all this, and 
not only knew it, but many of them put it into 
practice. What then has Christianity done? — 
But the Scripture teaches us the reverse of 
this: it teaches us to give God our whole 
heart, to live to him, to pray continually, and 
to fix our affections, not on things temporal, 
but on things eternal. Now, I ask you, 
whether, without any sophistry, or any per- 
version of the meaning of words, you can re- 
concile this with your religious instruction to 
your son ? 

I think, likewise, that you do not define the 



liETlCEHS. 49 

essentials of religion distinctly. We are either 
saved by the atonement of Jesus Christ, or we 
are not ; and if we are, then all men are ne- 
cessarily saved, or some are necessarily not 
saved ; and if some are not saved, it must be 
from causes either existing in the individuals 
themselves, or from causes existing in the 
economy of God's dispensations. Now, Mad- 
am, we are told that Jesus Christ died for all ; 
but we grant that all are not saved. Why 
then are some not saved ? It is because they 
do not act in a manner worthy of God's fa- 
vour ! Then a man's salvation depends upon 
his actions. But we are told in Scripture, that 
it does not depend on his actions — " By faith 
are ye saved, without the works of the law ;" 
— therefore it either must depend on some 
other effort of the creature, or on the will of 
the Creator. I will not dispute the question 
of Calvinism with you ; I will grant that Cal- 
vinism is indefensible ; but this all must con- 
cede who believe the Scriptures, that we are 
to be saved by faith only through Jesus Christ. 
I ask, therefore, whether you have taught this 
to your son ; and I ask whether there is one 
trait in your instructions, in common with the 
humbling, self-denying religion taught by the 
Apostles, by the homilies of our church, and 
by all the reformers ? The chief argument of 
the latter against the Romish church, was their 
asserting the validity of works. Now, what 
ideas must your son have of Christian faith ? 
You say, that even Shakspeare' s debauchees 
were believers; and he is given to understand, 
that he is a good Christian, if he do his duty 
to his master and fellows, go to church every 
Sunday, and keep clear of enthusiasm. And 
what has Jesus Christ to do with your system ; 
and where is that faith banished, of which 
every page of Scripture is full ?— Can this be 
right ? " Closet devotion" is the means of at- 
taining faith ; and humble prayer is the true 
means of arriving at fervency in religion, with- 
out enthusiasm. You condemn Socinianism ; 
but I ask you where Jesus Christ appears in 
your scheme, and where the influences of the 
Holy Ghost, and even his names, are banished 
from it ? 



TO MR. P. THOMPSON. 

Nottingham, April 8th, 1806. 

DEAR SIR, 

I sincerely beg your pardon for my un- 
grateful disregard of your polite letter. Tha 
G 



50 



H. K. WHITE'S 



intervening period has been so much taken up, 
on the one hand, by ill health, and on the 
other by occupations of the most indispensable 
kind, that I have neglected almost all my 
friends, and you amongst the rest. I am now 
at Nottingham, a truant from study, and a re- 
jected votary at the shrine of Health ; a few 
days will bring me back to the margin of the 
Cam, and bury me once more in the busy 
routine of college exercises. Before, however, 
I am again a man of bustle and occupation, 1 
snatch a few moments to tell you how much I 
shall be gratified by your correspondence, and 
how greatly I think myself flattered by your 
esteeming mine worth asking for. 

The little sketch of your past occupations 
and present pursuits interested me. Culti- 
vate, with all assiduity, the taste for letters 
which you possess. It will be a source of ex- 
quisite gratification to you : and if directed as 
it ought to be, and I hope as it will be di- 
rected, it will be more than gratification, (if 
we understand pleasure alone by that word,) 
since it will combine with it utility of the 
highest kind. If polite letters were merely 
instrumental in cheering the hours of elegant 
leisure, in affording refined and polished 
pleasures, uncontaminated with gross and 
sensual gratifications, they would still be 
valuable ; but in a degree infinitely less than 
when they are considered as the handmaids of 
the virtues, the correctors as well as the adorn- 
ers of society. But literature has, of late 
years, been prostituted to all the purposes of 
the bagnio. Poetry, in particular, arrayed in 
her most bewitching colours, has been taught to 
exercise the arts of the Leno, and to charm 
only that she may destroy. The Muse, who 
once dipped her hardy wing in the chastest 
dews of Castalia, and spoke nothing but what 
had a tendency to confirm and invigorate the 
manly ardour of a virtuous mind, now breathes 
only the voluptuous languishings of the harlot, 
and, like the brood of Circe, touches her charm- 
ed chords with a grace, that while it ravishes 
the ear, deludes and beguiles the sense. I 
call to witness Mr. Moore, and the tribe of 
imitators which his success has called forth, 
that my statement is true. Lord Strangford 
has trodden faithfully in the steps of his 
pattern. 



I hope, for the credit of poetry, that the 
good sense of the age will scout this insidious 
school ; and what may we not expect, if Moore 
and Lord Strangford apply themselves to a 
chaster muse ? — They are both men of uncom- 



mon powers. You may remember the reign oi 
Darwinian poetry, and the fopperies of Delia 
Crusca. To these succeeded the school of 
Simplicity, in which Wordsworth, Southey, 
and Coleridge, are so deservedly eminent. I 
think that the new tribe of poets endeavour to 
combine these two opposite sects, and to unite 
richness of language, and warmth of colour 
ing, with simplicity and pathos. They have 
certainly succeeded ; but Moore unhappily 
wished to be a Catullus, and from him has 
sprung the licentiousness of the new school. 
Moore's poems and his translations will, I 
think, have more influence on the female 
society of this kingdom, than the stage has 
had in its worst period, the reign of Charles II. 
Ladies are not ashamed of having the delectable 
Mr. Little on their toilet, which is a pretty good 
proof that his voluptuousness is considered as 
quite veiled by the sentimental garb in which 
it is clad. But voluptuousness is not the less 
dangerous for having some slight resemblance 
of the veil of modesty. On the contrary, her 
fascinations are infinitely more powerful in this 
retiring habit, than when she boldly protrudes 
herself on the gazer's eye, and openly so- 
licits his attention. The broad indecency of 
Wycherly, and his contemporaries, was not 
half so dangerous as this insinuating- and half- 
covered moc/c-delicacy, which makes use of the 
blush of modesty in order to heighten the 
charms of vice. 

I must conclude somewhat abruptly, by 
begging you will not punish my negligence to- 
wards you by retarding the pleasure I shall 
receive from your answer. 

1 am, 
Very truly yours, 

H. K. WHITE. 

Address to me, St. John's College, Cam- 
bridge. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, May, 1806 

MY DEAR NEVILLE, 

* * * * 



My long delayed and very anciently-promis- 
ed letter to Charlesworth will reach him short- 
ly. Tell him that I have written once to him 
in Latin ; but that having torn the paper in 
two by a mistake, I could not summon re- 
solution to copy it. 



I was glad to hear of the eclat with which 
he disputed and came off on so difficult a sub- 
ject as the Nerves ; and I beg him, if he have 
made any discoveries, to communicate them 
to me, who, being persecuted by these same 
nerves, should be glad to have some better ac- 
quaintance with my invisible enemies. 



TO HIS SISTER. 

St. John's, June 25th, 1806 
IY DEAR SISTER, 



The intelligence you gave me of Mr Forest's 
illness, &c. &c. cannot affect me in any way 
whatever. The mastership of the school must 
be held by a clergyman; and I very well re- 
collect that he is restrained from holding any 
curacy, or other ministerial office. The sal- 
ary is not so large as you mention : and if it 
were, the place would scarcely be an object to 
me : for I am very certain, that if I choose, 
when 1 have taken my degree, I may have 
half-a-dozen pupils to prepare for the univer- 
sity, with a salary of £100. per annum, 
which would be more respectable, and more 
consonant to my habits and studies, than 
drilling the fry of a trading town, in learning 
which they do not know how to value. Latin 
and Greek are nothing like so much respected 
in Nottingham as Wingate's Arithmetic. 



LETTERS. 51 

and apprehension. This I say as affecting the 
present life :— our views of the future can 
never be secure, they can never be comfortable 
or calm, without a solid faith in the Redeemer. 
Men may reason about the divine benevolence, 
the certainty of a future state, and the probable 
means of propitiating the Great Judge, but 
their speculations will only entangle them in 
the mazes of doubt, perplexity, and alarm, un- 
less they found their hopes on that basis which 
shall outstand the tide of ages. If we take this 
away, the poor bark o»f mortality loses its only 
stay, and we steer at random, we know not how, 
we know not whither. The religion of Jesus 
Christ is strength to the weak, and wisdom to 
the unwise. It requires no preparative of learn- 
ing nor study, but is, if possible, more obvious 
and easy to the illiterate than to the erudite. 
No man, therefore, has any excuse if he 
neglect it. The way is plain before him, and he 
is invited to enter. He has only to kneel at 
the foot of the cross, and cry, with the poor 
publican, " Lord have mercy upon me, a 
miserable sinner." If he do this, and examine 
his own heart, and mortify the body of sin with- 



it is well for you that you can still enjoy 
the privilege of sitting under the sound of the 
Gospel; and the wants of others, in these 
respects, will, perhaps, teach you how to 



almost all our hopes here, lie at the mercy of 
every succeeding hour. Death is always at 
hand to bereave us of some dear connection, 
or to snatch us away from those who may need 
our counsel and protection. I do not see how 
any person, capable of reflection, can live 
easily and fearlessly in these circumstances, 
unless he have a well-grounded confidence in 
the providing care of the Almighty, and a 
strong belief that his hand is in every event, 
and that it is a hand of mercy. The chances 
and changes of mortal life are so many and 
various, that a person cannot possibly fortify 
himself against the contingencies of futurity 
without some such hold as this, on which to 
rerose amidst the contending gales of doubt 



in him, as far as he is able, humbly and ear- 
nestly imploring the assistance of God's holy 
Spirit, we cannot doubt but he will meet with 
the approbation and assistance of the Almighty. 
In this path we must all tread. In this path 
I hope that you, my dear sister, are now pro- 
ceeding. You have children ; to whom can 
you commit them, should Providence call you 
hence, with more confidence than the meek 
and benevolent Jesus ? What legacy can you 
leave them more certainly profitable, than the 
prayers of a pious mother ? And if, taught by 
your example, as well as by your instructions, 
they should become themselves patterns of a 
holy and religious life, how sweetly will the 
evening of your days shine upon your head, as 
you behold them treading in those ways which 
you know, by experience, to be ways of plea- 
santness and peace ! I need not press this sub- 
value the blessing. All our comforts, and l<ject. I know you feel all that I say, and more 



than I can express. I only fear that the bustle 
of family cares, as well as many anxieties of 
mind on other accounts, should too much di- 
vert you from these important objects. Let me 
only remind you, that the prayers of the af- 
flicted are particularly acceptable to God. 
The sigh of the penitent is not too light to 
reach his ear. The eye of God is fixed as in- 
tently upon your soul at all times, as it is upon 
the revolution of the heavenly bodies and the 
regulation of systems. God surveys all things, 
and he contemplates them with perfect atten- 
tion ; and, consequently, he is as intently con- 
versant about the smallest as about the great- 
est things. For if he were not as perfectly in- 
tent on the soul of an individual being as he is 



52 

about the general concerns of the universe, 
then he would do one thing less perfectly than 
another: which is impossible in God. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, June 30th, 1806. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 

I received your letter yesterday ; and I 
hope you will not think my past silence at all 
in need of apology, when you know that our 
examination only closed on Saturday. 

I have the satisfaction of informing you, 
that after a week's scrutiny, I was deemed to 
be the first man. 1 had very little hopes of 
arriving at so distinguishing a station, on ac- 
count of my many checks and interruptions. 
It gave me great pleasure to observe how all 
the men rejoiced in my success. It was on 
Monday that the classes were published. I 
am a prize-man both in the mathematical and 
logical, or general examination, and in Latin 
composition. 

Mr. Catton has expressed his great satis- 
faction at my progress ; and he has offered to 
supply me with a private tutor for the four 
months of the vacation, free of any expense. 
This will cost the college twelve or fifteen gui- 
neas at least. My last term bill amounts only 
to £4, 5s. 3d. after my exhibitions are deducted. 

I had engaged to take charge of a few 
classical pupils, for a clergyman in Warwick- 
shire, during one month of the vacation, for 
which I was to receive, besides my board, 
&c. &c. ten guineas ; but Mr. Catton says 
this is a piece of extreme folly, as it will con- 
sume time, and do me no good. He told me, 
therefore, positively, that he would not give 
me an exeat, without which no man can leave 
his college for the night. 



H. K. WHITE'S 



events, the smaller colleges will be glad to 
elect me from St John's. 



With regard to cash, I manage pretty well, 
though my fund is at present at its lowest ebb. 
My bills, however, are paid ; and I have no 
occasion for money, except as a private con- 
venience. The question therefore is, whether 
it will be more inconvenient to you than con- 
venient to me for you to replenish my purse. 
Decide impartially. I have not drawn upon 
my mother since Christmas, except for the 
expense of my journey up from Nottingham to 
Cambridge ; nor do I mean to do it till next 
Christmas, when, as 1 have ordered a suit of 
clothes, I shall have a good many calls for 
money. 

Let me have a long letter from you soon. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 



St. John's, July 9th, 1806. 



MY DEAR MOTHER, 



I cannot, therefore, at all events, visit Not- 
tingham with my aunt, nor meet her there. 

I could now, if I chose, leave St. John's 
College, and go to another with great eclat ; 
but it would be an unadviseable step. I be- 
lieve, however, it will be impossible for them 
to elect me a fellow at St. John's, as my 
county is under particular restrictions. They 
can give me a fellowship of smaller value, but 
I had rather get one at another college : at ail 



I have scarcely time to write you a long 
letter ; but the pleasing nature of my intelli- 
gence will, I hope, make up for its shortness. 

After a week's examination, I am decided 
to be the first man of my year at St. John's : 
an honour I had scarcely hoped for, since my 
reading has been so very broken and inter- 
rupted. The contest was very stiff, and the 
men all acquitted themselves very well. We 
had thirteen men in the first class, though there 
are seldom more than six or eight who attain 
that rank in common. 

I have learned also, that I am a prize-man 
in classical composition, though I do not yet 
know whereabouts I stand. It is reported 
that here too I am first. 

Before it was known that I was the first 
man, Mr. Catton, our college tutor, told me 
that he was so satisfied with the manner in 
which I had passed through the examination, 
that if I chose to stay up during the summer, 
I should have a private tutor in the mathe- 
matics, and that it should be no expense to 
me. 1 could not hesitate at such a proposal, 
especially as he did not limit the time for my 
keeping the private tutor, but will probably 
continue it as long as I like. You may esti- 



LETTEttS. 



53 



mate the value of this favour, when I tell yon 
that a private tutor, for the whole vacation, 
will cost the college at least twelve or fourteen 
guineas, and that during term time they re- 
ceive ten guineas the term. 

1 cannot of course leave the college this 
summer even for a week, and shall therefore 

miss the pleasure of seeing my aunt G 

at Nottingham. I have written to her. 

Tt gave me much pleasure to observe the joy 
all the men seemed to feel at my success. I 
had been on a water excursion, with a clergy- 
man in the neighbourhood, and some ladies, 
and just got home as the men were assembling 
for supper ; you can hardly conceive with 
what pleasure they all flocked round me, with 
the most hearty congratulations, and I found 
that many of them had been seeking me all 
over the college, in order to be the first to com- 
municate the good tidings. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 

St. John's, July, 1806. 
MY DEAR FRIEND, 

I have good and very bad news to commu- 
nicate to you. Good, that Mr. Catton has given 
me an exhibition, which makes me up a clear 
income of £63 per annum, and that I am con- 
sequently more than independent ; bad, that 
I have been very ill, notwithstanding regular 
and steady exercise. Last Saturday morning 
I rose early, and got up some rather abstruse 
problems in mechanics for my tutor, spent an 
hour with him, between eight and nine got my 
breakfast, and read the Greek History (at 
breakfast) till ten, then sat down to decypher 
some logarithm tables. I think I had not done 
any thing at them, when I lost myself. At a 
quarter past eleven my laundress found me 
bleeding in four different places in my face 
and head, and insensible. I got up, and stag- 
gered about the room, and she, being fright- 
ened, ran away, and told my Gyp to fetch a 
surgeon. Before he came, I was sallying out 
with my flannel gown on, and my academical 
gown over it : he made me put on my coat, 
and then I went to Mr. Farish's : he opened 
a vein, and my recollection returned. My own 
idea was, that I had fallen out of bed, and so 
I told Mr. Farish at first; but I afterwards 
remembered that I had been to Mr. Fiske, and 
breakfasted. 



Mr. Catton has insisted on my consulting 
Sir IsaaG Pennington, and the consequence is, 
that I am to go through a course of blistering, 
&c. which, after the bleeding, will leave me 
weak enough. 

I am, however, very well, except as regards 
the doctors ; and yesterday I drove into the 
country to Saffron Walden in a gig. My 
tongue is in a bad condition, from a bite which 
I gave it either in my fall, or in the moments 
of convulsion. My nose has also come badly 
off. I believe I fell against my reading desk. 
My other wounds are only rubs and scratches 
on the carpet. 

I am ordered to remit my studies for a while, 
by the common advice both of doctors and tu- 
tors. Dr. Pennington hopes to prevent any 
recurrence of the fit. He thinks it looks to- 
wards epilepsy, of the horrors of which malady 
1 have a very full and precise idea ; and I. 
only pray that God will spare me as respects 
my faculties, however else it may seem good 
to him to afflict me. Were 1 my own master, 
I know how I should act; but I am tied here 
by bands which I cannot burst. I know that 
change of place is needful ; but I must not in- 
dulge in the idea. The college must not pay 
my tutor for nothing. Dr. Pennington and 
Mr. Farish attribute the attack to a too con- 
tinued tension of the faculties. As I am much 
alone now, I never get quite off study, and I 
think incessantly. I know nature will not 
endure this. They both proposed my going 
home, but Mr. * * did not hint at it, although 
much concerned; and, indeed, I know home 
would be a bad place for me in my present 
situation. I look round for a resting place, 
and I find none. Yet there is one, which I 
have long too, too much disregarded, and 
thither I must now betake myself. There are 
many situations worse than mine, and I have 
no business to complain. If these afflictions 
should draw the bonds tighter which hold me 
to my Redeemer, it will be well. 

You may be assured that you have here a 
plain statement of my case, in its true colours, 
without any palliation. I am now well again, 
and have only to fear a relapse, which I shall 
do all I can to prevent, by a relaxation in 
study. 

I have now written too much. 

1 am very sincerely, yours, 
H. K. WHITE. 

P. S. I charge you, as you value my peaee, 
not to let my friends hear, either directly or 
indirectly of my illness. 



54? H. K. 

TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, 30th July, 1806. 



MY DEAR NEVILLE, 



I had deferred sitting down to write to you 
until I should have leisure to send you a very 
long letter ; but as that time seems every day 
farther off, I shall beg your patience no longer, 
but fill my sheet as well as I can. 



WHITE'S 

The university is the worst place in the 
world for making interest. The great mass ot 
men are themselves busily employed in wrig- 
gling themselves into places and livings : and 
there is, in general, too much anxiety for No. 
1, to permit any interference for a neighbour, 
No. 2. 



I must first reply to your queries. 1 beg 
pardon for having omitted to mention the re- 
ceipt of the * * *, but, as I acknowledged 
the receipt of the parcel, I concluded that you 
would understand me to mean its contents as 
specified in your letter. But I know the ac* 
curacy of a man of business too well to think 
your caution strange. As to the college prizes, 
I have the satisfaction of telling you that I am 
entitled to two, viz. the first for the general 
examination, and one of the first for the clas- 
sical composition. I say one of the first on 
this account — I am put equal with two others 
at the top of the list. In this contest I had all 
the men of the three years to contend with, 
and, as both my equals are my seniors in stand- 
ing, I have no reason to be dissatisfied. 



The Rhetoric Lecturer sent me one of my 
Latin Essays to copy, for the purpose of in- 
spection ; a compliment which was paid to 
none of the rest. 



We three are the only men who are honour- 
ed with prizes, so that we have cut four or 
five Eton men, who are always boasting of 
their classical ability. 

With regard to your visit here, I think you 
had better come in term time, as the university 
is quite empty, and starers have nothing but 
the buildings to gaze at. If, however, you can 
come more conveniently now than hereafter, I 
would advise you not to let this circumstance 
prevent you. I shall be glad to see Mr. " * 
with you. You may spend a few days very 
pleasantly here, even in vacation time, though 
you will scarcely meet a gownsman in the 
streets. 

I thought the matter over about * * * *, 
but I do not think I have any influence here. 
Being myself a young man, I cannot with any 
chance of success, attempt to direct even that 
interest which I may claim with others. 



TO HIS MOTHER. 



MY DEAR MOTHER, 



St. John's, Aug. 1806. 



I have no hesitation in declining the free 
school, on the ground of its precluding the 
exercise of the ministerial duties. I shall 
take the liberty of writing Mr. — — to thank 
him for having thought of me, and to recom- 
mend to his notice Mr. — — . 



But do not fret yourself, my dear mother ; in 
a few years we shall, I hope, be in happier 
circumstances. I am not too sanguine in my 
expectations, but 1 shall certainly be able to 
assist you, and my sisters, in a few years. 
* * * *. As for Maria and Kate, if they suc- 
ceed well in their education, they may, per- 
haps, be able to keep a school of a superior 
kind, where the profits will be greater, and 
the labour less. I even hope that this may not 
be necessary, and that you, my father and they, 
may come and live with me when I get a par- 
sonage. You would be pleased to see how 

comfortably Mr. lives with his mother 

and sisters, at a snug little rectory about ten 
miles from Cambridge. So much for castle- 
building. 



TO MR. * * * 



St ,/ohrr's, Aug. 15, 1806. 



MY GOOD FRIEND, 



I have deferred writing to you until my 

return from Mr. 's, knowing how much 

you would like to hear from me in respect to 
that dear family. I am afraid your patience 
has been tried by this delay, and I trust to this 
circumstance alone as my excuse. 

My hours have seldom flowed so agreeably 

as they did at S , nor perhaps have I made 

many visits which have been more profitable 
to me in a religious sense. The example of 



LETTERS. 



55 



Mr. will, I hope, stimulate me io a faith- 
ful preparation for the sacred office to which 
1 am destined. I say a faithful preparation, 
because I fear I am apt to deceive myself with 
respect to my present pursuits, and to think I 
am only labouring for the honour of God, 
when 1 am urging literary labours to a degree 
inconsistent with duty and my real inter- 
ests. Mr. is a good and careful pastor ; 

my heart has seldom been so full as when I 
have accompanied him to the chambers of the 
sick, or have heard his affectionate addresses 
to the attentive crowd, which fills his school- 
room on Sunday evening. — He is so earnest, 
and yet so sober, so wise, and yet so simple ! 
You, my dear R , are now very nearly ap- 
proaching to the sacred office, and I sincerely 
pray that you may be stimulated to follow 
after the pattern of our excellent friend. You 

may have Mr. 's zeal, but you will need 

his learning and his judgment to temper it. 
Remember, that it is a work of much more self- 
denial, for a man of active habits to submit to 
a course of patient study, than to suffer many 
privations for Christ's sake. In the latter the 
heart is warmly interested : the other is the 
slow and unsatisfactory labour of the head, 
tedious in its progress, and uncertain in 
its produce. Yet there is a pleasure, great 
and indescribable pleasure, in sanctified study : 
the more wearisome the toil, the sweet- 
er will it be to those who sit down with a 
subdued and patient spirit, content to under- 
go much tedium and fatigue, for the honour 
of God's ministry. Reading, however dry, 
soon becomes interesting, if we pursue it with 
a resolute spirit of investigation, and a deter- 
minate purpose of thoroughly mastering what 
we are about. You cannot take up the most 
tiresome book, on the most tiresome subject, 
and read it with fixed attention for an hour, 
but you feel a desire to go on : and here I 
would exhort you, whatever you read, read it 
accurately and thoroughly, and never to pass 
over any thing, however minute, which you do 
not quite comprehend. This is the only way 
to become really learned, and to make your 
studies satisfactory and productive. If I 
were capable of directing your course of read- 
ing, I should recommend you to peruse But- 
ler's Analogy, Warburton's Divine Legation, 
Prideaux and Shuckford's Connections, and 
Milner's Church History, century for century, 
along with Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History. 
The latter is learned, concise, clear, and writ- 
ten in good scholastic Latin. Study the 
Chronology of the Old Testament, and as a 
mean of making it interesting, trace out the 
completion of the prophecies. Read your 
Greek Testament with the nicest accuracy, 



tracing every word to its root, and seeking out 
the full force of particular expressions, by re- 
ference both to Parkhurst and Scapula. The 
derivation of words will throw great light on 
many parts of the New Testament: thus, if we 
know that the word hxxovog, a deacon, comes 
from hot and rJvio, to bustle about in the dust, 
we shall have a fuller notion of the humility of 
those who held the office in the primitive 
church. In reading the Old Testament, 
wherever you find a passage obscure, turn to 
the Septuagint, which will often clear up a 
place better than fifty commentators. Thus, 
in Joel, the day of the Lord is called " a day 
of gloominess, a day of darkness, and of clouds, 
like the morning spread upon the mountains," 
which is a contradiction. Looking at the 
Septuagint, we find that the passage is mis- 
pointed, and that the latter metaphor is ap- 
plied to the people: "A people great and 
strong, like the morning spread upon the 
mountains." The Septuagint is very easy 
Greek, quite as much so as tbe Greek Testa- 
ment ; and a little practice of this kind will 
help you in your knowledge of the language, 
and make you a good critic. I perceive your 
English style is very unpolished, and I think 
this a matter of great moment. I should re- 
commend you to read, and imitate as nearly as 
you can, the serious papers in the eighth 
volume of the Spectator, particularly those on 
the Ubiquity of the Deity. Accustom your- 
self to write down your thoughts, and to 
polish the style some time after composition, 
when you have forgotten the expression. Aim 
at conciseness, neatness, and clearness ; never 
make use of fine or vulgar words. Avoid 
every epithet which does not add greatly to 
the idea, for every addition of this kind, if it 
do not strengthen, weakens the sentiment; 
and be cautious never to express by two 
words, what you can do as well by one ; a 
multiplicity of words only hides the sense, just 
as a superabundance of clothes does the shape. 
This much for studies. 



I recommend you to pause, and consider 
much and well on the subject of matrimony. 
You have heard my sentiments with regard to 
a rich wife ; but I am much too young, and too 
great an enthusiast, to be even a tolerable 
counsellor on a point like this. You must 
think for yourself, and consult with prudent 
and pious people, whose years have taught 
them the wisdom of the present world, and 
whose experience has instructed them in that 
of the world to come. But a little sober 
thought is worth a world of advice. You have 
however, an infallible adviser, and to his di- 



56 H. K. 

rections you may safely look. To him I co 
mend all your ways. 



I have one observation to make, which I 
hope you will forgive in me; it is, that you 
fall in love too readily. I have no notion of a 
man's having a certain species of affection for 
two women at once. I am afraid you let your 
admiration outrun your judgment in the out- 
set, and then comes the denouement and its 
attendant, disappointment and disgust. Take 
good heed you do not do this in marriage ; for 
if you do, there will be great risk of your 
making shipwreck of your hopes. Be content 
to learn a woman's good qualities as they 
gradually reveal themselves ; and do not let 
your imagination adorn her with virtues and 
charms to which she has no pretension. I 
think there is often a little disappointment after 
marriage — our angels turn out to be mere 
Eves — but the true way of avoiding, or, at 
least, lessening this inconvenience, is to esti- 
mate the object of our affections really as she is, 
without deceiving ourselves, and injuring her, 
by elevating her above her sphere. This is 
the way to be happy in marriage ; for upon 
this plan our partners will be continually 
breaking in upon us, and delighting us with 
some new discovery of excellence ; while, up- 
on the other plan, we shall always be finding 
that the reality falls short of what we had so 
fondly and so foolishly imagined. 

Be very sedulous and very patient in your 
studies. You would shudder at the idea of 
obtruding yourself on the sacred office in a 
condition rather to disgrace than to adorn it. 
St. Paul is earnest in admonishing Timothy 
to give attention to reading : and that holy 
apostle himself quotes from several of the best 
authors among the Greeks. His style is also 
very elegant, and polished on occasion. He, 
therefore, did not think the graces of composi- 
tion beneath his attention, as some foolish and 
ignorant preachers of the present day are apt 
to do. I have written a longer letter to you 
than I expected, and I must now therefore 
say, good bye. 

I am 
Very affectionately yours, 

H. K. WHITE. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. 

St. John's, August 12th, 1806. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 

1 can but just manage to tell you, by this 



WHITE'S 

post, what I am sure you will be glad to learn, 
even at the expense of seven-pence for an 
empty sheet, that Mr. Catton has given me an 
exhibition, which makes my whole income 
sixty guineas a year. My last term's bill was 
£13 13s., and I had £7 12s., to receive ; but the 
expenses of this vacation will leave me bare 
until Christmas. 



I have the pleasure of not having solicited 
either this or any other of the favours which 
Mr. Catton has so liberally bestowed upon 
me: and though I have been the possessor of 
this exhibition ever since March last, yet Mr. 
Catton did not hint it to me until this morning, 
when he gave me my bill. 

I have, of course, signified to Mr. Simeon, 
that 1 shall have no need whatever of the 
stipend which I have hitherto received through 
his hands. He was extremely kind on the 
occasion, and indeed his conduct towards me 
has ever been fatherly. It was Mr. * * * 
who allowed me £20 per annum, and Mr. 
Simeon added £10. He told me, that my con- 
duct gave him the most heartfelt joy ; that I 
was so generally respected, without having 
made any compliances, as he understood, or 
having, in any instance, concealed my princi- 
ples. Indeed, this is a praise which I may 
claim, though I never conceived that it was at 
all an object of praise. I have always taken 
some pains to let those around me know my 
religious sentiments, as a saving of trouble, 
and as a mark of thatindependence of opinion, 
which, I think, every one ought to assert : and 
as I have produced my opinions with frankness 
and modesty, and supported them (if attack- 
ed) with coolness and candour, I have never 
found them any impediment to my acquain- 
tance with any person whose acquaintance I 
coveted. 



TO MR. R. W. A. 



St John's, Aug. lSthj 180G. 



I am glad to hear of your voyages and 
travels through various regions, and various 
seas, both of this island, and its little suckling 
the Isle of Wight. 

Many hair's breadth 'scapes and perilous 
adventures you must needs have had, and 
many a time, on the extreme shores of the 
south, must you have looked up with the eye 






LETTERS. 

of intelligent curiosity to see whether the 
same moon shone there as in the pleasant, but 
now far distant groves of Colwick. And 
now, my very wise and travelled friend, see- 
ing that your head is yet upon your shoulders, 
and your neck in its right natural position, and 
seeing that, after all the changes and chances 
of a long journey, and after being banged 
from post to pillar, and from pillar to post ; 
seeing, 1 say, that after all this, you are safe- 
ly housed once more under your paternal roof, 
what think you, if you were to indulge your 
mind as much as you have done your eyes and 
gaping muscles ? A few trips to the fountains 
of light and colour, or to the regions of the good 
lady who %£j<r/v WbaXcis dftxu olgoppov tovw, a ram- 
ble down the Galaxy, and a few peeps on the 
unconfined confines (*orf*ov cmot^m, Zmoi «yVv«y, frfo 
cb {it&Tov) of infinite space, would prove, per- 
haps, as delectable to your immaterial part, as 
the delicious see-saw of a post chaise was to 
your corporeal ; or, if these sethereal, aero- 
nautical, mathematical volutations should dis- 
please you, perhaps it would not be amiss to 
saunter a few weeks on the site of Troy, or to 
lay out plans of ancient history on the debata- 
ble ground of the Peloponnesians and Athen- 
ians. There is one Thucydides, who lives 
near, who will tell you all about the places you 
visit, and the great events connected with them : 
he is a sententious old fellow, very shrewd 
in his remarks, and speaks, moreover, very 
excellent Greek at your service. I know not 
whether you have met with any guide in the 
course of your bodily travels who can be com- 
pared to him. If you should make Rome in 
your way, either there or back, I should like 
to give you a letter of introduction to an old 
friend of mine, whose name is Livy, who, as 
far as his memory extends, will amuse you 
with pretty stories, and some true history. 
There is another honest fellow enough, to 
whom I dare not recommend you, he is so very 
crabbed and tart, and speaks so much in epi- 
grams and enigmas, that I am afraid he would 
teach you to talk as unintelligibly as himself. 
I do not mean to give you any more advice, 
but I have one exhortation, which I hope you 
will take in good part : it is this, that if you 
set out on this journey, you would please to 
proceed to its end : for I have been acquainted 
with some young men, who have turned their 
faces towards Athens or Rome, and trudged on 
manfully for a few miles, but when they had 
travelled till they grew weary, and worn out 
a good pair of shoes, have suddenly become 
disheartened, and returned without any re- 
compence for their pains. 



57 
with the utmost assiduity. You are at a criti- 
cal period of your life, and the habits which 
you now form will, most probably, adhere to 
you through life. If they be idle habits, I am 
sure they will. 

But^even the cultivation of your mind is of 
minor importance to that of your heart, your 
temper, and disposition. Here I have need 
not to preach but to learn. You have had less 
to encounter in your religious progress than / 
have, and your progress has been therefore 
greater, greater even than your superior 
faculties would have warranted. I have had 
to fight hard with vanity at home, and ap- 
plause abroad : no wonder that my vessel has 
been tossed about ; but greater wonder that it 
is yet upon the waves. I exhort you to pray 
with me, (and I entreat you to pray for me,) 
that we may both weather out the storm, and 
arrive in the haven of sound tranquillity, even 
on this side the grave. 

We have all particular reason to watch and 
pray, lest self too much predominate. We 
should accustom ourselves to hold our own 
comforts and conveniencies as subordinate to 
the comforts and conveniencies of others in all 
things : and a habit thus begun in little mat- 
ters, might probably be extended without diffi- 
culty to those of a higher nature. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 



St. John's, 14th Sept. 18G6. 



Y DEAR BEN, 



I can scarcely write more to you now than 
just to calm your uneasiness on my account. 
I am perfectly, well again, and have ex- 
perienced no recurrence of the fit : my spirits 
too are better, and I read very moderately. I 
hope that God will be pleased to spare his re- 
bellious child ; this stroke has brought me 
nearer to Him : whom indeed have I for my 
comforter but Him ? 

I am still reading, but with moderation, as 
I have been during the whole vacation, what- 
ever you may persist in thinking. 



And now let me assume a more serious 
strain, and exhort you to cultivate your mind 



My heart turns with more fondness towards 
the consolations of religion than it did, and in 
some degree I have found consolation. I still, 
however, conceive that it is my duty to pursue 
my studies temperately, and to fortify myseli 
with Christian . resignation and calmness for 
the worst. I am much wanting in these vir- 
H 



58 



H. K. WHITE'S 



tues, and, indeed, in all Christian virtues; 
but I know how desirable they are, and I long 
for them. Pray that I may be strengthened 
and enlightened, and that I may be enabled 
to go where duty bids, wherever that be. 



TO MR. B. MADDOCK. 



St. John's, Cambridge, 22d Sept. 1806. 



MY DEAR FRIEND, 



You charge me with an accession of gal- 
lantry of late ; I plead guilty. I really began 
to think of marriage (very prematurely, you'll 
say ;) but if I experience any repetition of the 
fit, I shall drop the idea of it for ever. It 
would.be folly and cruelty to involve another 
in all the horrors of such a calamity. 

I thank you for your kind exhortations to a 
complete surrender of my heart to God, which 
are contained in your letter. In this respect 
I have betrayed the most deplorable weakness 
and indecision of character. I know what 
the truth is, and I love it ; but I still go on 
giving myself half to God, and half to the 
world, as if I expected to enjoy the comforts 
of religion along with the vanities of life. If, 
for a short time, I keep up a closer communion 
with God, and feel my whole bosom bursting 
with sorrow and tenderness as I approach the 
footstool of my Saviour, I soon relapse into 
indifference, worldly-mindedness, and sin ; my 
devotions become listless and perfunctory : I 
dote on the world, its toys, and its corruptions, 
and am mad enough to be willing to sacrifice 
the happiness of eternity to the deceitful plea- 
sures of the passing moment. My heart is in- 
deed a lamentable sink of loathsome corruption 
and hypocrisy. In consistency with my pro- 
fessed opinions, I am often obliged to talk on 
subjects of which I know but little in ex- 
perience, and to rank myself with those who 
have felt, what I only approve from my head, 
and, perhaps, esteem from my heart. I often 
start with horror and disgust from myself, 
when I consider how deeply 1 have imper- 
ceptibly gone into this species of simulation. 
Yet I think my love for the Gospel, and its 
professors, is sincere ; only I am insincere in 
suffering persons to entertain a high opinion 
of me as a child of God, when indeed I am an 
alien from him. On looking over some private 



memorandums, which were written at various 
times in the course of the two last 3 ears, I 
beheld, with inexpressible anguish, that my 
progress has, if any thing, been retrograde. 1 
am still as dark, still as cold, still as ignorant, 
still as fond of the world, and have still fewer 
desires after holiness. I am very, very dis- 
satisfied with myself, and yet I am not prompted 
to earnest prayer. I have been so often 
earnest, and always have fallen away, that I 
go to God without hope, without faith. Yet 
I am not totally without hope ; I know God 
will have my whole heart, and I know, when 
I give him that, I shall experience the light of 
his countenance with a permanency. I pray 
that he would assist my weakness, and grant 
me some portion of his grace, in order that I 
may overcome the world, the flesh, and the 
devil, to which I have long, very long, been 
a willing, though an unhappy slave. Do you 
pray earnestly with me, and for me, in these 
respects ; I know the prayers of the faithful 
avail much ; and when you consider with 
what great temptations I am surrounded, and 
how very little strength I have wherewith to 
resist them, you will feel with me the neces- 
sity of earnest supplication, and fervent inter- 
cession, lest I should be lost, and cast away 
for ever. 

I shall gladly receive your spiritual advice 
and directions. I have gone on too long in 
coldness and unconcern ; who knows whether, 
if I neglect the present hour, the day of salva- 
tion may not be gone by for ever ! ! 



TO MR. JOHN CHARLES WORTH. 

St. John's, 22d Sept. 1806. 
MY DEAR CHARLESWORTH, 

Thank you for taking the blame of our ne- 
glected correspondence on your own shoulders. 
I thought it rested elsewhere. Thrice have I 
begun to write to you ; once in Latin, and 
twice in English ; and each time have the 
fates opposed themselves to the completion of 
my design. But, however, pax sit rebus, we 
are naturally disposed to forgive, because we 
are, as far as intention goes, mutual Of- 
fenders. 

I thank you for your invitation to Clapham, 
which came at a fortunate juncture, since I 
had just settled with my tutor that I should 
pay a visit to ray brother in London this week. 



LETTERS, 



59 



I shall of course see you ; and shall be happy 
to spend a few days with you at Clapham and 
to rhapsodize on your common. It gives me 
pleasure to hear you are settled, and I give 
you many hearty good wishes for practice and 
prosperity. I hope you will soon find that a 
wife is a very necessary article of enjoyment 
in a domesticated state ; for how indeed should 
it be otherwise ? A man cannot cook his dinner 
while he is employed in earning it. House- 
keepers are complete helluones rei familiaris, 
and not only pick your pockets, but abuse you 
into the bargain. While a wife, on the con- 
trary, both cooks your dinner, and enlivens it 
with her society ; receives you after the toils 
of the day with cheerfulness and smiles, and 
is not only the faithful guardian of your 
treasury, but the soother of your cares, and 
the alleviator of your calamities. Now, am I 
not very poetical? But on such a subject who 
would not be poetical ? A wife ! — a domestic 
fire-side ; — the cheerful assiduities of love and 
tenderness ! It would inspire a Dutch burgo- 
master! and if, with all this in your grasp, 
you shall still choose the pulsare terram pede 
libero, still avoid the irrupta copula, still deem 
it a matter of light regard to be an object of 
affection and fondness to an amiable and 
sensible woman, why then you deserve to be 
a fellow of a college all your days; to be 
kicked about in your last illness by a saucy 
and careless bed-maker ; and, lastly, to be 
put in the ground in your college chapel, fol- 
lowed only by the man who is to be your 
successor. Why, man, I dare no more dream 
that I shall ever have it in my power to have 
a wife, than that I shall be Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, and Primate of all England. A suite 
of rooms in a still and quiet corner of old St. 
John's, which was once occupied by a crazy 
monk, or by one of the translators of the Bible 
in the days of good King James, must form the 
boundary of my ambition. I must be content 
to inhabit walls which never echoed with a 
female voice, to be buried in glooms which 
were never cheered with a female smile. It is 
said, indeed, that women were sometimes 
permitted to visit St. John's when it was a 
monastery of White-Friars, in order to be 
present at particular religious ceremonies ; 
but the good monks were careful to sprinkle 
holy water wherever their profane footsteps 
had carried contagion and pollution. 



It is well that you are free from the restric- 
tions of monastic austerity, and that, while I 
sleep under the shadow of towers and lofty 
walls, and the safeguard of a vigilant porter, 
you are permitted to inhabit your own cottage, 



under your own guardianship, and to listen 
to the sweet accents of domestic affection. 

Yes, my very Platonic, or rather Stoical 
friend, I must see you safely bound in the 
matrimonial noose, and then, like a confirmed 
bachelor, ten years hence, I shall have the 
satisfaction of pretending to laugh at, while, 
in my heart, I envy you. So much for rhap- 
sody. I am coming to London for relaxation's 
sake, and shall take it pretty freely ; that is, 
I shall seek after fine sights — stare at fine 
people — be cheerful with the gay — foolish 
with the simple — and leave as little room to 
suspect as possible that I am (any thing of) 
a philosopher and mathematician. I shall 
probably talk a little Greek, but it will be by 
stealth, in order to excite no suspicion. 

I shall be in town on Friday or Saturday. 
I am in a very idle mood, and have written 
you a very idle letter, for which I entreat your 
pardon : and 1 am, 

Dear C , 

Very sincerely yours, 

H. K. WHITE. 



TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE 

(found in his pocket after HIS DECEASE.) 
St. John's College, Saturday, Oct. 11th, 1806. 
DEAR NEVILLE, 

I am safely arrived, and in college, but my 
illness has increased upon me much. The 
cough continues, and is attended with a good 
deal of fever. I am under the care of Mr. 
Farish, and entertain very little apprehension 
about the cough ; but my over-exertions in 
town have reduced me to a state of much 
debility ; and, until the cough be gone I can- 
not be permitted to take any strengthening 
medicines. This places me in an awkward pre- 
dicament ; but I think I perceive a degree of 
expectoration this morning, which will soon 
relieve me and then I shall mend apace. 

Under these circumstances, I must not ex- 
pect to see you here at present : when I am a 
little recovered, it will be a pleasant relaxa- 
tion to me. 



Our lectures began on Friday but I do not 
attend them until I am better, I have not 



60 H. K. WHITE'S 

written to my mother, nor shall I while I re- 
main unwell. You will tell her, as a reason, 
that our lectures began on Friday. I know 
she will be uneasy, if she do not hear from me, 



and still more so, if I tell her I am ill. 
I cannot write more at present, than that I am 
Your truly affectionate brother, 
H. K. WHITE. 



HINTS, &c. 



Why will not men be contented with ap- 
pearing what they are ? As sure as we attempt 
to pass for what we are not, we make our- 
seNes ridiculous. With religious professors, 
this ought to be a consideration of importance ; 
for when we assume credit for what we do not 
possess, we break the laws of God in more 
ways than we are aware of: vanity and de- 
ceit are both implicated. 

Why art thou so disquieted, O my soul, and 
why so full of heaviness? O put thy trust in 
God ; for I will yet thank him who is the 
help of my countenance, and my God. Ps. xlii. 

Domine Jesu ! in te speravi, miserere mei! 
Ne sperne animum miserrimi peccatoris. 

The love of Christ is the only source from 
whence a Christian can hope to derive spiritual 
happiness and peace. Now the love of Christ 
will not reside in the bosom already preoc- 
cupied with the love of the world, or any other 
predominating affection. We must give up 
every thing for it, and we know it deserves 
that distinction ; yet, upon this principle, 
unless the energy of Divine grace were what 
it is, mighty and irresistible, who would be 
saved? 

The excellence of our liturgy, and our 
establishment, is more and more impressed 
upon my mind : how admirable do her con- 
fessions, her penitentiary offerings, her inter- 
cessions, her prayers, suit with the case of 
the Christian ! It is a sign that a man's heart 
is not right with God, when he finds fault 
with the liturgy. 

Contempt of religion is distinct from unbelief: 
unbelief may be the result of proud reasonings, 
and independent research ; but contempt of 
the Christian doctrine must proceed from pro- 
found ignorance. 



Lord, give me a heart to turn all knowledge 



to thy glory, and not to mine : keep me from 
being deluded with the lights of vain philo- 
sophy ; keep me from the pride of human 
reason ; let me not think my own thoughts, 
nor dream my own imaginations ; but, in all 
things acting under the good guidance of the 
Holy Spirit, may I live in all simplicity, 
humility, and singleness of heart, unto the 
Lord Jesus Christ, now and for ever more. 
Amen. 

[The above prayer was prefixed to a manual, or memo- 
randu m-book.3 



A PRAYER. 

Almighty Father, at the close of another 
day I kneel before thee in supplication, and 
ere 1 compose my body to sleep, I would steal 
a few moments from weariness, to lift up my 
thoughts to thy perfections, to meditate on thy 
wonderful dispensations, and to make my 
request known unto thee. 

Although the hours of this day have not 
been spent in the busy haunts of society, but 
in the pursuit of needful and godly knowledge, 
yet I am conscious that my thoughts and ac- 
tions have been far from pure ; and many vain 
and foolish speculations, many sinful thoughts 
and ambitious anticipations, have obtruded 
themselves on my mind. I know that I have 
felt pleasure in what I ought to have abhorred, 
and that I have not had thy presence con- 
tinually in mind ; so that my ghostly enemy 
has mixed poison with my best food, and 
sowed tares with the good seed of instruction. 
Sometimes, too, the world has had too much 
to do with my thoughts ; I have longed for 
its pleasures, its splendors, its honours, and 
have forgotten that I am a poor follower of 
Jesus Christ, whose inheritance is not in this 
land, but in the fields above. I do therefore 
supplicate and beseech thee, Oh ! thou my 
God and Father, that thou wilt not only for- 
give these my wanderings, but that thou wilt 



REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH POETS. 



61 



chasten my heart, and establish my affections, 
so that they may not be shaken by the light 
suggestions of the tempter Satan ; and since 
I am of myself very weak, I implore thy 
restraining hand upon my understanding, that 
I may not reason in the pride of worldly wis- 
dom, nor flatter myself on my attainments, 
but ever hold my judgment in subordination 
to thy word, and see myself as what I am, a 
helpless dependant on thy bounty. If a spirit 
of indolence and lassitude have at times crept 
on me, I pray thy forgiveness for it ; and if I 
have felt rather inclined to prosecute studies 
which procure respect from the world, than 
the humble knowledge which becomes a ser- 
vant of Christ, do thou check this growing 
propensity, and only bless my studies so far 
as they conduce to thy glory, and as thy glory 
is their chief end. My heart, O Lord! is but 
too fond of this vain and deceitful world, and 
I have many fears lest I should make ship- 
wreck of my hope on the rocks of ambition and 
vanity. Give me, I pray thee, thy grace to re- 
press these propensities : illumine more com- 
pletely my wandering mind, rectify my under- 
standing, and give me a simple, humble, and 
affectionate heart, to love thee and thy sheep 
with all sincerity. As I increase in learning, 
let me increase in lowliness of spirit : and inas- 
much as the habits of studious life, unless tem- 
pered by preventing grace, but too much tend 
to produce formality and lifelessness in devo- 
tion, do thou, O heavenly Father, preserve me 
from all cold and speculative views of thy bles- 
sed Gospel ; and while with regular constancy I 
kneel down daily before thee, do not fail to 
light up the fire of heavenly love in my bosom, 
and to draw my heart heavenward with ear- 
nest longing [to thyself.] 

And now, O Blessed Redeemer! my rock, 
my hope, and only sure defence, to thee do I 
cheerfully commit both my soul and my body. 
If thy wise Providence see fit, grant that I 
may rise in the morning, refreshed with sleep, 
and with a spirit of cheerful activity for the 
duties of the day : but whether I wake here 
or in eternity, grant that my trust in thee may 
remain sure, and my hope unshaken. Our 
Father, &c. 

[This prayer was discovered amongst some dirty loose 
pap; rs of H. K. White's.] 



Mem. 

SEPTEMBER 22nd, 1806. 

On running over the pages of this book, 1 
im constrained to observe, with sorrow and 



shame, that my progress in divine light has 
been little or none. 

I have made a few conquests over my cor- 
rupt inclinations, but my heart still hankers 
after its old delights ; still lingers half wil- 
ling, half unwilling* in the ways of worldly- 
mindedness. 

My knowledge of divine things is very little 
improved. I have read less of the Scriptures 
than I did last year. In reading the Fathers, 
I have consulted rather the pride of my heart 
than my spiritual good. 

I now turn to the cause of these evils, and I 
find that the great root, the main-spring, is — 
love of the world ; next to that, pride; next to 
that, spiritual sloth. 



REMARKS 
ON THE ENGLISH POETS. 

IMITATIONS. 

The sublimity and unaffected beauty of the 
sacred writings are in no instance more con- 
spicuous, than in the following verses of the 
xviiith Psalm : 

" He bowed the heavens also and came 
down : and darkness was under his feet. 

" And he rode upon a cherub and did fly : 
yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind." 

None of our better versions have been able 
to preserve the original graces of these verses. 
That wretched one of Thomas Sternhold, how- 
ever, (which, to the disgrace and manifest de- 
triment of religious worship, is generally used,) 
has in this solitary instance, and then perhaps 
by accident, given us the true spirit of the 
Psalmist, and has surpassed not only Merrick, 
but even the classic Buchanan. This version 
is as follows : — 

" The Lord descended from above, 
And bowed the heavens high, 

And underneath his feet he cast 
The darkness of the sky. 

" On chembs and on cherubims 

Full royally he rode, 
And on the- wings of mighty winds 

Came flying all abroad.' 3 



62 



Dryden honoured these verses with very high 
commendation, and, in the following lines of 
his Annus Mirabilis, has apparently imitated 
them, in preference to the original : 

" The duke less numerous, but in courage 
more, 
On wings of all the winds to combat flies." 

And in his Ceyx and Alcyone, from Ovid, he 
has — 

" And now sublime she rides upon the wind." 

which is probably imitated, as well as most of 
the following, not from Sternhold,but the ori- 
ginal. Thus Pope, 

" Not God alone in the still calm we find, 
He mounts the storm and rides upon the wind." 

And Addison — 



H. K. WHITE'S 

The latter in Winter, 1. 199. 



Rides in the 
storm." 



whirlwind and directs the 



The unfortunate Chatterton has — 

" And rides upon the pinions of the wind." 

And Gray — 

" With arms sublime that float upon the air." 

Few poets of eminence have less incurred 
the charge of plagiarism than Milton ; yet 
many instances might be adduced of similar- 
ity of idea and language with the Scripture, 
which are certainly more than coincidences, 
and some of these I shall, in a future number, 
present to your readers. Thus the present 
passage in the Psalmist was in all probability 
in his mind when he wrote — 



" And with mighty wings outspread, 

Dove-like sat'st brooding on the vast abyss.' 
Par. Lost, I. 20. B. 1. 



The third verse of the civth Psalm — 

" He maketh the clouds his chariot, and 
walketh upon the wings of the wind," — 

is evidently taken from the before-mentioned 
verses in the xviiith Psalm, on which it is per- 
haps an improvement. It has also been imi- 
tated by two of our first poets, — Shakspeare 
and Thomson. The former in Romeo and 
Juliet — 

" Bestrides the lazy-paced clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air." 



" Till Nature's King, who oft 

Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone, 
And on the wings of the careering winds 
Walks dreadfully serene." 

As these imitations have not before, I be- 
lieve, been noticed, they cannot fail to interest 
the lovers of polite letters ; and they are such 
as at least will amuse your readers in general. 
If the sacred writings were attentively pe- 
rused, we should find innumerable passages 
from which our best modern poets have drawn 
their most admired ideas : and the enumera- 
tions of these instances would perhaps attract 
the attention of many persons to those volumes, 
which they now perhaps think to contain every 
thing tedious and disgusting, but which, on 
the contrary, they would find replete with in- 
terest, beauty, and true sublimity. 



STERNHOLD AND HOPKINS. 



MR. EDITOR, 

In your Mirror for July, a Mr. William 
Toone has offered a few observations on a 
paper of mine, in a preceding number, con- 
taining remarks on the versions and imitations 
of the 9th and 10th verses of the xviiith Psalm, 
to which I think it necessary to offer a few 
words by way of reply; as they not only put 
an erroneous construction on certain passages 
of that paper, but are otherwise open to ma- 
terial objection. 

The object of Mr. Toone, in some parts of 
his observations, appears to have been to re- 
fute something which he fancied I had advan- 
ced, tending to establish the general merit of 
Sternhold and Hopkins' translation of the 
Psaims : but he might have saved himself this 
unnecessary trouble, as I have decidedly con- 
demned it as mere doggrel, still preserved 
in our churches, to the detriment of religion ; 
and the version of the passage in question is 
adduced as a brilliant, though probably acci- 
dental, exception to the general character of 
the work. What necessity, therefore, your 
correspondent could see for " hoping that I 
should think with him, that the sooner the old 
version of the Psalms was consigned to oblivion, 
the better it would be for rational devotion, 7 ' I 
am perfectly at a loss to imagine. 

This concluding sentence of Mr. Toone's 
paper, which I consider as introduced merely 






REMARKS ON THE ENGLISH POETS. Q 3 

by way of rounding the period, and making a j I differ from your correspondent's opinion, 
graceful exit, needs no further animadversion, j that these verses, so far from possessing sub- 
1 shall therefore proceed to examine the ob- limity, attract the reader merely by their rum- 
jections of the " worthy clergyman of the bling sound : And here it may not be amiss to 
church of England" to these verses, cited by observe, that the true sublime does not consist 
your correspondent, by which he hopes to of high sounding words, or pompous magnifi- 
prove, Dryden, Knox, and the numerous cence ; on the contrary, it most frequently ap- 
other eminent men who have expressed their pears clad in native dignity and simplicity, 
admiration thereof, to be little better than without art, and without ornament, 
idiots.— -The first is this : 

The most elegant critic of antiquity, Lon- 
ginus, in his Treatise on the Sublime, adduces 
the following passage 



" Cherubim is the plural for Cherub ; but our 
versioner by adding an s to it, has rendered 



from the Book of 



them both plurals." By adding an s to what ? , Genesis, as possessing that quality in an emi- 



If the pronoun it refer to cherubim, as accord- 
ing to the construction of the sentence it really 
does, the whole objection is nonsense. — But 
the worthy gentleman, no doubt, meant to say, 
that Sternhold had rendered them both plurals 
by the addition of an s to cherub. Even in 
this sense, however, I conceive the charge to 
be easily obviated; for, though cherubim is 
doubtless usually considered as the plural of 
cherub, yet the two words are frequently so 
used in the Old Testament as to prove, that 
they were often applied to separate ranks of 
beings. One of these, which I shall cite, will 
dispel all doubt on the subject. 

" And within the oracle he made two cher- 
ubims of olive tree, each ten cubits high." 

1 Kings, ver. 23. chap. vi. 

The other objection turns upon a word with 
which it is not necessary for me to interfere ; 
for I did not quote these verses as instances 
of the merit of Sternhold, or his version, I 
only asserted that the lines which 1 then 
copied, viz. 

" The Lord descended from above," &c. 

were truly noble and sublime. Whether, 
therefore, Sternhold wrote all the winds (as 
asserted by your correspondent, in order to 
furnish room for objection,) or mighty winds, 
is of no import. But if this really be a subse- 
quent alteration, I think at least there is no 
improvement ; for when we conceive the winds 
as assembling from all quarters, at the omni- 
potent command of the Deity, and bearing him 
with their united forces from the heavens, we 
have a more sublime image than when we see 
him as flying merely on mighty winds, or as 
driving his team (or troop) of angels on a 
strong tempest's rapid wing, with most amaz- 
ing swiftness, as elegantly represented by Brady 
and Tate* 

* The chariot of the king of kings, 
Which active troops of angels drew, 

On a strong tempest's rapid tuingt, 
With most amazing swiftness flew. 



nent degree : 

" God said, Let there be light, and there was 
light : — Let the earth be, and earth was. 1 ' * 

From what I have advanced on this subject, 
I would not have it inferred, that 1 conceive 
the version of Sternhold and Hopkins, gener- 
ally speaking, to be superior to that of Brady 
and Tate ; for, on the contrary, in almost every 
instance, except that above mentioned, the 
latter possesses an indubitable right to pre- 
eminence. Our language, however, cannot 
yet boast one version possessing the true spirit 
of the original ; some are beneath contempt, 
and the best has scarcely attained mediocrity. 
Your correspondent has quoted some verses 
from Tate, in triumph, as comparatively ex- 
cellent ; but, in my opinion, they are also in- 
stances of our general failure in sacred poetry : 
they abound in those ambitiosa ornamenta which 
do well to please women and children, but 
which disgust the man of taste. 

To the imitations already noticed of this pas- 
sage, permit me to add the following : — • 

" But various Iris, Jove's commands to bear, 

Speeds on the wings of winds through liquid 

air." Pope's Iliad, B. 2. 

" Miguel cruzando os pelagos do vento." 
Carlos Reduzido, Canto I., by Pedro de 
Azevedo Tojal, an ancient Portuguese poet of 
some merit. 



REMARKS 
ON THE ENGLISH POETS. 



WARTON. 



The poems of Thomas Warton are replete 
with a sublimity, and richness of imagery, 

# The quotation appears to have been made from me- 
mory, and not correctly. 



64 



H. K. WHITE'S 



which seldom fail to enchant : every line pre- 
sents new beauties of idea, aided by all the 
magic of animated diction. From the inex- 
haustible stores of figurative language, ma- 
jesty, and sublimity, which the ancient English 
poets afford, he has culled some of the richest 
and the sweetest flowers. But, unfortunately, 
in thus making use of the beauties of other 
writers, he has been too unsparing; for the 
greater number of his ideas and nervous epi- 
thets cannot, strictly speaking, be called his 
own ; therefore, however we may be charmed 
by the grandeur of his images, or the felicity 
of his expression, we must still bear in our re- 
collection, that we cannot with justice bestow 
upon him the highest eulogium of genius — that 
of originality. 

It has, with much justice, been observed, 
that Pope, and his imitators, have introduced 
a species of refinement into our language, 
which has banished that nerve and pathos for 
which Milton had rendered it eminent. Har- 
monious modulations, and unvarying exact- 
ness of measure, totally precluding sublimity 
and fire, have reduced our fashionable poetry 
to mere sing-song. But Thomas Warton, 
whose taste was unvitiated by the frivolities 
of the day, immediately saw the intrinsic worth 
of what the world then slighted. He saw that 
the ancient poets contained a fund of strength, 
and beauty of imagery, as well as diction, 
which, in the hands of genius, would shine 
forth with redoubled lustre. Entirely reject- 
ing, therefore, modern niceties, he extracted 
the honied sweets from these beautiful, though 
neglected flowers. Every grace of sentiment, 
every poetical term, which a false taste had 
rendered obsolete, was by him revived and 
made to grace his own ideas ; and though 
many will condemn him as guilty of plagia- 
rism, yet few will be able to withhold the tri- 
bute of their praise. 

The peculiar forte of Warton seems to have 
been in the sombre descriptive. The wild airy 
flights of a Spenser, the " chivalrous feats of 
barons bold," or the " cloister'd solitude/' 
were the favourites of his mind. Of this his 
bent he informs us in the following lines : — 

Through Pope's soft song, though all the 

graces breathe, 
And happiest art adorns his attic page, 
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport 

glow, 
As at the root of mossy trunk reclin'd, 
In magic Spenser's wildly warbled song, 
I see deserted Una wander wide 
Through wasteful solitudes and lurid heaths, 



Weary, forlorn, than where the fated fair • 
Upon the bosom bright of silver Thames, 
Launches in all the lustre of brocade, 
Amid the splendours of the laughing sun ; 
The gay description palls upon the sense, 
And coldly strikes the mind with feeble 
bliss. Pleasures of Melancholy. 

Warton's mind was formed for the grand 
and the sublime. Were his imitations less 
verbal, and less numerous, I should be led to 
imagine that the peculiar beauties of his fa- 
vourite authors had sunk so impressively into 
his mind, that he had unwittingly appropri- 
ated them as his own ; but they are in general 
such as to preclude the idea. 

To the metrical and other intrinsic orna- 
ments of style, he appears to have paid due 
attention. If we meet with an uncouth ex- 
pression, we immediately perceive that it is 
peculiarly appropriate, and that no other term 
could have been made use of with so happy 
an effect. His poems abound with alliterative 
lines. Indeed, this figure seems to have been 
his favourite ; and he studiously seeks every 
opportunity to introduce it: however, it must 
be acknowledged, that his " daisy-dappled 
dales," &c. occur too frequently. 

The poem on which Warton's fame (as a 
poet) principally rests, is, the " Pleasures of 
Melancholy," and (notwithstanding the per- 
petual recurrence of ideas which are borrowed 
from other poets) there are few pieces which 
I have perused with more exquisite gratifica- 
tion. The gloomy tints with which he over- 
casts his descriptions ; his highly figurative 
language ; and, above all, the antique ai* 
which the poem wears, convey the most sub 
lime ideas to the mind. 

Of the other pieces of this poet, some are 
excellent, and they all rise above mediocrity. 
In his sonnets, he has succeeded wonderfully ; 
that written at Winslade, and the one to the 
river Lodon, are peculiarly beautiful, and that 
to Mr. Gray is most elegantly turned. The 
" Ode on the Approach of Summer" is replete 
with genius and poetic fire ; and even over the 
Birth-day Odes, which he wrote as poet 
laureat, his genius has cast energy and beauty. 
His humorous pieces and satires abound iu 
wit ; and, in short, taking him altogether, he 
is an ornament to our country and our lan- 
guage, and it is to be regretted, that the pro- 
fusion with which he has made use of the 
beauties of other poets, should have given 
room for censure. 

* Belinda. Vide Pope's Rape of the Lock. 



REMAHKS ON THE 

1 should have closed my short, and, I fear, 
jejune essay on Warton, but that I wished to 
hint to your truly elegant and acute Stamford 
correspondent, Octavius Gilchrist, 'whose fu- 
ture remarks on Warton's imitations I await 
with considerable impatience,) that the pas- 
sage in the Pleasures of Melancholy — 



or ghostly shape, 



At distance seen, invites, with beck'ning hand, 
Thy lonesome steps," 

which he supposes to be taken from the fol- 
lowing in Comus — 

" Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows 

dire, 
And airy tongues that syllable men's names," 

is more probably taken from the commence- 
ment of Pope's Elegy on an unfortunate 
Lady — ■ 

" What beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight 

shade 
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade ?" 

The original idea was possibly taken from 
Comus by Pope, from whom Warton, to all 
appearance, again borrowed it. 

Were the similarity of the passage in Gray to 
that in Warton less striking and verbal, I 
should be inclined to think it Only a remark- 
able coincidence ; for Gray's biographers in- 
form us, that he commenced his elegy in 1742, 
and that it was completed in 1744, being the 
year which he particularly devoted to the 
muses, though he did not " put the finishing 
stroke to it" until 1750. The Pleasures of 
Melancholy were published in 4to. in 1747 ; 
therefore Gray might take his third stanza 
from Warton ; but it is rather extraordinary 
that the third stanza of a poem should be taken 
from another, published Jive years after that 
poem was begun, and three after it was under- 
stood to be completed. One circumstance, 
however, seems to render the supposition of 
its being a plagiarism somewhat more' proba- 
ble, which is, that the stanza in question is not 
essential to the connection of the succeeding 
and antecedent verses ; therefore it might have 
been added by Gray, when he put the u finish- 
ing stroke" to his piece in 1750. 



CURSORY REMARKS ON TRAGEDY. 



The pleasure which is derived from the re- 
presentation of an affecting tragedy, has often 



ENGLISH POETS. 65 

been the subject of inquiry among philosophi- 
cal critics, as a singular phenomenon. — That 
the mind should receive gratification from the 
excitement of those passions which are in 
themselves painful, is really an extraordinary 
paradox, and is the more inexplicable, since, 
when the same means are employed to rouse 
the more pleasing affections, no adequate effe ct 
is produced. 

In order to solve this problem, many in- 
genious hypotheses have been invented. The 
Abbe Du Bos tells us, that the mind has such 
a natural antipathy to a state of listlessness 
and languor, as to render the transition from 
it to a state of exertion, even though by 
rousing passions in themselves painful, as in 
the instance of tragedy, a positive pleasure. 
Monsieur Fontenelle has given us a more 
satisfactory account. He tells us that plea- 
sure and pain, two sentiments so different in 
themselves, do not differ so much in their 
cause ; — that pleasure, carried too far, becomes 
pain ; and pain, a little moderated, becomes 
pleasure. Hence that the pleasure we derive 
from tragedy is a pleasing sorrow, a modulated 
pain. David Hume, who has also written upon 
this subject, unites the two systems, with this 
addition, that the painful emotions excited by 
the representation of melancholy scenes, are 
further tempered, and the pleasure is pro- 
portionably heightened by the eloquence dis- 
played in the relation — the art shown in 
collecting the pathetic circumstances, and the 
judgment evinced in their happy disposition. 

But even now I do not conceive the difficulty 
to be satisfactorily done away. Admitting 
the postulatum which the Abbe Du Bos as- 
sumes, that languor is so disagreeable to the 
mind, as to render its removal positive plea- 
sure, to be true ; yet, when we recollect, as 
Mr. Hume has before observed, that were the 
same objects of distress which give us pleasure 
in tragedy set before our eyes in reality, though 
they would effectually remove listlessness, they 
would excite the most unfeigned uneasiness, 
we shall hesitate in applying this solution in 
its full extent to the present subject. M. 
Fontenelle's reasoning is much more conclu- 
sive ; yet I think he errs egregiously in his 
premises, if he means to imply that any modu- 
lation of pain is pleasing, because, in what- 
ever degree it may be, it is still pain, and 
remote from either ease or positive pleasure ; 
and if, by moderated pain, he means any 
uneasy sensation abated, though not totally 
banished, he is no less mistaken in the ap- 
plication of them to the subject before us. — 
Pleasure may very well be conceived to be 
painful, when carried to excess, because it 



<S6 

there becomes exertion, and is inconvenient. 
We may also form some idea of a pleasure 
arising from moderated pain, or the transition 
from the disagreeable to the less disagreeable ; 
but this cannot in any wise be applied to the 
gratification we derive from a tragedy, for 
there no superior degree of pain is left for an 
inferior. As to Mr. Hume's addition of the 
pleasure we derive from the art of the poet, 
for the introduction of which he has written 
his whole dissertation on tragedy, it merits 
little consideration. The self- recollection 
necessary to render this art a source of gra- 
tification must weaken the illusion ; and 
whatever weakens the illusion diminishes the 
effect. 

In these systems it is taken for granted 
that all those passions are excited which are 
represented in the drama. This 1 conceive to 
have been the primary cause of error ; for to 
me it seems very probable that the only pas- 
sion or affection which is excited, is that of 
sympathy, which partakes of the pleasing 
nature of pity and compassion, and includes 
in it so much as is pleasing of hope and ap- 
prehension, joy and grief. 

The pleasure we derive from the afflictions 
of a friend is proverbial — every person has 
felt, and wondered why he felt, something 
soothing in the participation of the sorrows of 
those dear to his heart ; and he might with as 
much reason have questioned why he was 
delighted with the melancholy scenes of 
tragedy. Both pleasures are equally singu- 
lar ; they both arise from the same source. 
Both originate in sympathy. 

It would seem natural that an accidental 
spectator of a cause in a court of justice, 
with which he is perfectly unacquainted, 
would remain an uninterested auditor of what 
was going forward. Experience tells us, how- 
ever, the exact contrary. He immediately, even 
before he is well acquainted with the merits of 
the case, espouses one side of the question, to 
which he uniformly adheres, participates in 
all its advantages, and sympathises in its 
success. There is no denying that the interest 
this man takes in the business is a source of 
pleasure to him ; but we cannot suppose one 
of the parties in the cause, though his interest 
must be infinitely more lively, to feel an equal 
pleasure, because the painful passions are in 
him really roused, while in the other sym- 
pathy alone is excited, which is in itself pleas- 
ing. It is pretty much the same with the 
spectator of a tragedy. And, if the sympathy 
is the more pleasing, it is because the actions 



H, K. WHITE'S 



are so much the more calculated to entrap the 
attention, and the object so much the more 
worthy. The pleasure is heightened also in both 
instances by a kind of intuitive recollection, 
which never forsakes the spectator, that no bad 
consequences will result to him from the action 
he is surveying. The recollection is the more 
predominant in the spectator of a tragedy, as 
it is impossible in any case totally to banish 
from his memory that the scenes are fictitious 
and illusive. In real life we always advert to 
futurity, and endeavour to draw inferences of 
the probable consequences ; but the moment 
we take off our minds from what is passing 
on the stage to reasonings thereupon, the illu- 
sion is dispelled, and it again recurs that it is 
all fiction 

If we compare the degrees of pleasure we 
derive from the perusal of a novel and the re- 
presentation of a tragedy, we shall observe a 
wonderful disparity. In both we feel an inter- 
est, in both sympathy is excited. But in the 
one, things are merely related to us as having 
passed, which it is not attempted to persuade 
us ever did in reality happen, and from which, 
therefore, we never can deceive ourselves into 
the idea that any consequences whatever will 
result ; in the other, on the contrary, the ac- 
tions themselves pass before our eyes ; we are 
not tempted to ask ourselves whether they did 
ever happen ; we see them happen, we are the 
witnesses of them ; and were it not for the 
meliorating circumstances before mentioned, 
the sympathy would become so powerful as to 
be in the highest degree painful. 

In tragedy, therefore, every thing which 
can strengthen the illusion should be intro- 
duced, for there are a thousand drawbacks 
on the effect, which it is impossible to remove, 
and which have always so great a force, as to 
put it out of the power of the poet to excite 
sympathy in a too painful degree. Every 
thing that is improbable, every thing which is 
out of the common course of nature, should, 
for this reason, be avoided, as nothing will so 
forcibly remind the spectator of the unrealness 
of the illusion. 

It is a mistaken idea, that we sympathise 
sooner with the distresses of kings and illus- 
trious personages, than with those of common 
life. Men are, in fact, more inclined to com- 
miserate the sufferings of their equals, than of 
those whom they cannot but regard rather 
with awe than pity, as superior beings, and 
to take an interest in incidents which might 
have happened to themselves sooner than in 
those remote from their own rank and habits. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS, 



61 



It is for this reason that jEschylus censures 
Euripides for introducing his kings in rags, 
as if they were more to be compassionated 
than other men ; 

rifaJraji ttiv too; ficttriXivtvrots pxxi&fAtfitrxaiv/iv' knXiuvo) 
Tots cwBgaxoiz QothovT iTvoci. 

Some will, perhaps, imagine that it is in the 
power of the poet to excite our sympathy in 
too powerful a degree, because, at the repre- 
sentation of certain scenes, the spectators are 
frequently affected so as to make them shriek 
out with terror. But this is not sympathy; it 
is horror, it is disgust, and is only witnessed 
when some act is committed on the stage so 
cruel and bloody, as to make it impossible to 
contemplate it, even in idea, without horror. 

Nee pueros coram populo Medea trucidet, 
Aut humana palam coquat exta nefarius A treus. 
Hor. Ars Poet. I. 185. 

It is for this reason, also, that many fine 
German dramas cannot be brought on the 
English stage, such as the Robbers of Schiller, 
and the Adelaide of Wulfingen, by Kotzebue : 
they are too horrible to be read without vio- 
lent emotions, and Horace will tell you what 
an immense difference there is in point of 
effect between a relation and a representation. 

Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem, 
Quam quas sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et 
Ipse sibi tradit spectator. [quae 

Ars Poet. 1 180. 

I shall conclude these desultory remarks, 
strung together at random, without order or 
connection, by observing what little foundation 
there is for the general outcry in the literary 
world, against the prevalence of German 
dramas on our stage. Did they not possess 
uncommon merit, they would not meet with 
such general approbation. Fashion has but a 
partial influence, but they have drawn tears 
from an audience in a barn as well as in a 
theatre royal ; they have been welcomed with 
plaudits in every little market-town in the 
three kingdoms, as well as in the metropolis. 
Nature speaks but one language ; she is alike 
intelligible to the peasant and the man of let- 
ters, the tradesman and the man of fashion. 
While the Muse of Germany shall continue to 
produce such plays as the Stranger and Lovers' 
Vows,* who will not rejoice that transla- 

* 1 speak of these plays only as adapted to our stage by 
the elegant pens of Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Inchbald. 



tion Is able to naturalize her efforts in our 
language? 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. I.) 



■There is a mood 



(I sing not to the vacant and the young) 

There is a kindly mood of Melancholy, 

That wings the soul and points her to the skies. 

Dyer. 



Philosophers have divested themselves of 
their natural apathy, and poets have risen 
above themselves, in descanting on the pleas- 
ures of Melancholy. There is no mind so 
gross, no understanding so uncultivated, as to 
be incapable, at certain moments, and amid 
certain combinations, of feeling that sublime 
influence upon the spirits which steals the 
soul from the petty anxieties of the world, 

" And fits it to hold converse with the gods." 

I must confess, if such there be who never 
felt the divine abstraction, I envy them not their 
insensibility. For my own part, it is from the 
indulgence of this soothing power that I de- 
rive the most exquisite of gratifications ; at 
the calm hour of moonlight, amid all the sub- 
lime serenity, the dead stillness of the night ; 
or when the howling storm rages in the 
heavens, the rain pells on my roof, and the 
winds whistle through the crannies of my 
apartment, I feel the divine mood of melan- 
choly upon me ; I imagine myself placed upon 
an eminence, above the crowds who pant 
below in the dusty tracks of wealth and hon- 
our. The black catalogue of crimes and of 
vice ; the sad tissue of wretchedness and wo, 
passes in review before me, and I look down 
upon man with an eye of pity and commisera- 
tion. Though the scenes which I survey be 
mournful, and the ideas they excite equally 
sombre ; though the tears gush as I contemplate 
them, and my heart feels heavy with the sor- 
rowful emotions which they inspire ; yet are 
they not unaccompanied with sensations of 
the purest and most ecstatic bliss. 

It is to the spectator alone that Melancholy 
is forbidding; in herself she is soft and in- 
teresting, and capable of affording pure and 
unalloyed delight. Ask the lover why he 
muses by the side of the purling brook, or 



68 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



plunges into the deep gloom of the forest? 
Ask the unfortunate why he seeks the still 
shades of solitude ? or the man who feels the 
pangs of disappointed ambition, why he re- 
tires into the silent walks of seclusiou ? and 
he will tell you that he derives a pleasure 
therefrom, which nothing else can impart. It 
is the delight of Melancholy ; but the melan- 
choly of these beings is as far removed from 
that of the philosopher, as are the narrow and 
contracted complaints of selfishness from the 
mournful regrets of expansive philanthropy ; 
as are the desponding intervals of insanity 
from the occasional depressions of benevolent 
sensibility. 

The man who has attained that calm equan- 
imity which qualifies him to look down upon 
the petty evils of life with indifference ; who 
can so far conquer the weakness of nature, as 
to consider the sufferings of the individual of 
little moment, when put in competition with 
the welfare of the community, is alone the 
true philosopher. His melancholy is not ex- 
cited by the retrospect of his own misfortunes ; 
it has its rise from the contemplation of the 
miseries incident to life, and the evils which 
obtrude themselves upon society, and inter- 
rupt the harmony of nature. It would be 
arrogating too much merit to myse.f, to assert 
that I have a just claim to the title of a 
philosopher, as it is here defined ; or to say 
that the speculations of my melancholy hours 
are equally disinterested : be this as it may, 
I have determined to present my solitary 
effusions to the public ; they will at least have 
the merit of novelty to recommend them, and 
may possibly, in some measure, be instru- 
mental in the melioration of the human heart, 
or the correction of false prepossessions. This 
is the height of my ambition ; this once at- 
tained, and my end will be fully accomplished. 
One thing I can safely promise, though far from 
being the coinages of a heart at ease, they will 
contain neither the querulous captiousness of 
misfortune, nor the bitter taunts of misan- 
thropy. Society is a chain of which I am 
merely a link : all men are my associates in 
error, and though some may have gone farther 
in the ways of guilt than myself, yet it is not 
in me to sit in judgment upon them ; it is mine 
to treat them rather in pity than in anger, to 
lament their crimes and to weep over their 
sufferings. As these papers will be the amuse- 
ment of those hours of relaxation, when the 
mind recedes from the vexations of business, 
and sinks into itself for a moment of solitary 
ease, rather than the efforts of literary leisure, 
the reader will not expect to find in them un- 
usual elegance of language, or studied pro- 
priety of style. In the short and necessary in- 



tervals of cessation from the anxieties of an 
irksome employment, one finds little time to 
be solicitous about expression. If, therefore, 
the fervour of a glowing mind expresses itself 
in too warm and luxuriant a manner for the 
cold ear of dull propriety, let the fastidious 
critic find a selfish pleasure in deciying it. 
To criticism melancholy is indifferent. If 
learning cannot be better employed than in 
declaiming against the defects, while it is 
insensible to the beauties of a performance, 
well may we exclaim with the poet, 



12 ivpiw,? ccyvoioe, ui cx.pt.utj.Gs rig U 
Ot#v 01 cv ev t%ots ovTois c' ovx ctyvou. 



w. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



(No. II.) 



But Cwel-a-day !) wlio loves the Muses now ? 
Or lielpes the climber of the sacred hyll ? 
None leane to them j but strive to disalow 
All heavenly dewes the goddesses distill. 

Wtn. Brown's Skepheard's Pipe. Eg. 5. 



It is a melancholy reflection, and a reflection 
which often sinks heavily on my soul, that 
the Sons of Genius generally seem predestined 
to encounter the rudest storms of adversity, to 
struggle, unnoticed, with poverty and mis- 
fortune. The annals of the world present us 
with many corroborations of this remark ; and, 
alas ! who can tell how many unhappy beings, 
who might have shone with distinguished 
lustre among the stars which illumine our 
hemisphere, may have sunk unknown beneath 
the pressure of untoward circumstances; who 
knows how many may have shrunk, with ail 
the exquisite sensibility of genius, from the 
rude and riotous discord of the world, into the 
peaceful slumbers of death. Among the num- 
ber of those whose talents might have elevated 
them to the first rank of eminence, but who 
have been overwhelmed with the accumulated 
ills of poverty and misfortune, I do not hesitate 
to rank a young man whom I once accounted 
it my greatest happiness to be able to call my 
friend. 

Charles Wanely was the only son of an 
humble village rector, who just lived to give 
him a liberal education, and then left him un* 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



69 



provided for and unprotected, to struggle 
through the world as well as he could. With 
a heart glowing with the enthusiasm of poetry 
and romance, with a sensibility the most exqui- 
site, and with an indignant pride, which 
swelled in his veins, and told him he was a 
man, my friend found himself cast upon the 
wide world at the age of sixteen, an adventur- 
er, without fortune and without connection. 
As his independent spirit could not brook the 
idea of being a burden to those whom his 
father had taught him to consider only as 
allied by blood, and not by affection, he looked 
about him for a situation which could en- 
sure to him, by his own exertions, an honour- 
able competence. It was not long before such 
a situation offered, and Charles precipitately 
articled himself to an attorney, without giv- 
ing himself time to consult his own inclinations, 
or the disposition of his master. The transi- 
tion from Sophocles and Euripides, Theocritus 
and Ovid, to Finche and Wood, Coke and 
Wynne, was striking and difficult ; but Charles 
applied himself with his wonted ardour to his 
new study, as considering it not only his in- 
terest, but his duty so to do. It was not long, 
however, before he discovered that he disliked 
the law, thathe disliked his situation, and that 
he despised his master. The fact was, my 
friend had many mortifications to endure, 
which his haughty soul could ill brook. The 
attorney to whom he was articled, was one of 
those narrow-minded beings who consider 
wealth as alone entitled to respect. He had 
discovered that his clerk was very poor, and 
very destitute of friends, and thence he very 
naturally concluded that he might insult him 
with impunity. It appears, however, that he 
was mistaken in his calculations. I one night 
remarked that my friend was unusually 
thoughtful. I ventured to ask him whether 
he had met with any thing particular to ruffle 
his spirits. He looked at me for some moments 
significantly, then, as if roused to fury by the 
recollection — " I have," said he vehemently, 
" I have, I have. He has insulted me gross- 
ly, and I will bear it no longer." He now 
walked up and down the room with visible 
emotion.— Presently he sat down.— He seemed 
more composed. " My friend," said he, 
" I have endured much from this man. I con- 
ceived it my duty to forbear, but 1 have for- 
borne until forbearance is blameable, and, 
by the Almighty, I will never again endure 
what I have endured this day. But not only 
this man ; every one thinks he may treat me 
with contumely, because I am poor and friend- 
less. But I am a man, and will no longer 
tamely submit to be the sport of fools, and the 
foot-ball of caprice. In this spot of earth, 



though it gave me birth, I can never taste of 
ease. Here 1 must be miserable. The princi- 
pal end of man is to arrive at happiness. 
Here I can never attain it ; and here therefore 
I will no longer remain. My obligations to 
the rascal, who calls himself my master, are 
cancelled by his abuse of the authority I rash- 
ly placed in his hands. I have no relations to 
bind me to this particular place." The tears 
started in his eyes as he spoke. " I have no 
tender ties to bid me stay, and why do I stay ? 
The world is all before me. My inclination 
leads me to travel ; I will pursue that inclina- 
tion ; and, perhaps, in a strange land I may 
find that repose which is denied to me in the 
place of my birth. My finances, it is true, 
are ill able to support the expenses of travel- 
ling: but what then— Goldsmith, my friend," 
with rising enthusiasm, " Goldsmith traversed 
Europe on foot, and I am as hardy as Gold- 
smith. Yes, I will go, and perhaps, ere long, 
I may sit me down on some towering moun- 
tain, and exclaim with him, while a hundred 
realms lie in perspective before me, 



Creation's heir, 
mine." 



the world, the world is 



It was in vain I entreated him to reflect ma- 
turely, ere he took so bold a step ; he was deaf 
to my importunities, and the next morning I 
received a letter informing me of his departure. 
He was observed about sun-rise, sitting on the 
stile, at the top of an eminence which com- 
manded a prospect of the surrounding country, 
pensively looking towards the village. I 
could divine his emotions, on thus casting 
probably a last look on his native place. The 
neat white parsonage-house, with the honey- 
suckle mantling on its wall, I knew would 
receive his last glance ; and the image of his 
father would present itself to his mind, with a 
melancholy pleasure, as he was thus hasten- 
ing, a solitary individual, to plunge himself 
into the crowds of the world, deprived of that 
fostering hand which would otherwise have 
been his support and guide. 

From this period Charles Wanely was 
never heard of at L , and, as his few rela- 
tions cared little about him, in a short time it 
was almost forgotten that such a being had 
ever been in existence. 

About five years had elapsed from this 
period, when my occasions led me to the con- 
tinent. I will confess I was not without 
a romantic hope, that 1 might again meet with 
my lost fritnd ; and that often, with that idea, 



70 MELANCHOLY 

I scrutinized the features of the passengers. 
One fine moonlight night, as I was strolling 
down the grand Italian Strada di Toledo, at 
Naples, 1 observed a crowd assembled round a 
man, who, with impassioned gestures, seemed 
to be vehemently declaiming to the multi- 
tude. It was one of the Improvisatori, who 
recite extempore verses in the streets of 
Naples, for what money they can collect from 
the hearers. I stopped to listen to the man's 
metrical romance, and had remained in the 
attitude of attention some time, when, happen- 
ing to turn round, I beheld a person very 
shabbily dressed, steadfastly gazing at me. 
The moon shone full in his face. 1 thought 
his features were familiar to me. He was 
pale and emaciated, and his countenance bore 
marks of the deepest dejection. Yet, amidst 
all these changes, I thought I recognised 
Charles Wanely. 1 stood stupified with sur- 
prise. My senses nearly failed me. On re- 
covering myself, I looked again, but he had 
left the spot the moment he found himself ob- 
served. I darted through the crowd, and ran 
every way which I thought he could have 
gone, but it was all to no purpose. Nobody 
knew him. Nobody had even seen such a per- 
son. The two following days I renewed my 
inquiries, and at last discovered the lodgings 
where a man of his description had resided. 
But he had left Naples the morning after his 
form had struck my eyes. I found he gained 
a subsistence by drawing rude figures in 
chalks and vending them among the peasantry. 
I could no longer doubt it was my friend, 
and immediately perceived that his haughty 
spirit could not bear to be recognised in such 
degrading circumstances, by one who had 
known him in better days. Lamenting the 
misguided notions which had thus again 
thrown him from me, I left Naples, now 
grown hateful to my sight, and embarked for 
England. It is now nearly twenty years 
since this rencounter, during which period 
he has not been heard of; and there can be 
little doubt that this unfortunate young 
man has found, in some remote corner of 
the continent, an obscure and an unlamented 
grave. 



Thus, those talents which were formed to do 
honour to human nature, and to the country 
which gave them birth, have been nipped in 
the bud by the frosts of poverty and scorn, 
and their unhappy possessor lies in an 
unknown and nameless tomb, who might, 
under happier circumstances, have risen 
to the highest pinnacle of ambition and 
renown. 

W. 



HOURS. 
MELANCHOLY HOU11S. 

(No. III.) 



Few know that elegance of soul refined, 
Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy 
From melancholy's scenes, than the dull pride 
Of tasteless splendour and magnificence 
Can e'er afford. 

Warton's Melancholy 



In one of my midnight rambles down the 
side of the Trent, the river which waters the 
place of my nativity, as I was musing on the 
various evils which darken the life of man, 
and which have their rise in the malevolence 
and ill-nature of his fellows, the sound of a 
flute from an adjoining copse attracted my 
attention. The tune it played was mournful, 
yet soothing. It was suited to the solemnity 
of the hour. As the distant notes came wafted 
at intervals on my ear, now with gradual 
swell, then dying away on the silence of the 
night, I felt the tide of indignation subside 
within me, and give place to the solemn calm 
of repose. I listened for some time in breath- 
less ravishment. The strain ceased, yet the 
sounds still vibrated on my heart, and the 
visions of bliss which they excited, still 
glowed on my imagination. I was then 
standing in one of my favourite retreats. It 
was a little alcove, overshadowed with wil- 
lows, and a mossy seat at the back invited to 
rest. I laid myself listlessly on the bank. 
The Trent murmured softly at my feet, and the 
willows sighed as they waved over my head. 
It was the holy moment of repose, and I soon 
sunk into a deep sleep. The operations of 
fancy in a slumber, induced by a combination 
of circumstances so powerful and uncommon, 
could not fail to be wild and romantic in the 
extreme. Methought I found myself in an 
extensive area, filled with an immense con- 
course of people. At one end was a throne of 
adamant, on which sat a female, in whose 
aspect I immediately recognised a divinity. 
She was clad in a garb of azure, on her fore- 
head she bore a sun, whose splendor the eyes 
of many were unable to bear, and whose rays 
illumined the whole space, and penetrated 
into the deepest recesses of darkness. The 
aspect of the goddess at a distance was for- 
bidding, but on a nearer approach, it was 
mild and engaging. Her eyes were blue and 
piercing, and there was a fascination in her 
smile which charmed as if by enchantment. 
The air of intelligence which beamed in her 
look, made the beholder shrink into himself 



MELANCHOLY HOURS* 



71 



with the consciousness of inferiority ; yet the 
affability of her deportment, and the sim- 
plicity and gentleness of her manners, soon re- 
assured him, while the bewitching softness 
which she could at times assume, won his 
permanent esteem. On inquiry of a by- 
s tander who it was that sat on the throne, and 
what was the occasion of so uncommon an 
a ssembly, he informed me that it was the 
Goddess of Wisdom, who had at last suc- 
ceeded in regaining the dominion of the earth, 
which Folly had so long usurped. That she 
sat there in her judicial capacity, in order to 
try the merits of many who were supposed (obe 
the secret emissaries of Folly. In this way I 
understood Envy and Malevolence had been 
sentenced to perpetual banishment, though 
several of their adherents yet remained among 
men, whose minds were too gross to be irra- 
diated with the light of wisdom. One trial I 
understood was just ended, and another sup- 
posed delinquent was about to be put to the 
bar. With much curiosity I hurried for- 
wards to survey the figure which now ap- 
proached. She was habited in black, and 
veiled to the waist. Her pace was solemn 
and majestic, yet in every movement was a 
winning gracefulness. As she approached to 
the bar, I got a nearer view of her, when, 
what was my astonishment to recognise in 
her the person of my favourite goddess, 
Melancholy. Amazed that she, whom I had 
always looked upon as the sister and com- 
panion of Wisdom, should be brought to trial 
as an emissary and an adherent of Folly, I 
waited in mute impatience for the accusation 
which could be framed against her. — On 
looking towards the centre of the area, I was 
much surprised to see a bustling little Cit of 
my acquaintance, who, by his hemming and 
clearing, 1 concluded was going to make the 
charge. As he was a self-important little 
fellow, full of consequence and business, and 
totally incapable of all the finer emotions of 
the soul, I could not conceive what ground of 
complaint he could have against Melancholy, 
who, I was persuaded, would never have 
deigned to take up her residence for a moment 
in his breast. When I recollected, however, 
that he had some sparks of ambition in his 
composition, and that he was an envious, carp- 
ing little mortal, who had formed the design 
of shouldering himself into notice by decrying 
he defects of others, while he was insensible 
o his own, my amazement and my apprehen- 
sions vanished, as I perceived he only wanted 
to make a display of his own talent, in doing 
which I did not fear his making himself suf- 
ficiently ridiculous. 

After a good deal of irrelevant circumlocu- ^ 



tion, he boldly began the accusation of Mel- 
ancholy. I shall not dwell upon many absurd 
and many invidious parts of his speech, nor 
upon the many blunders in the misapplication 
of words, such as " deduce 7 ' for " detract," and 
others of a similar nature, which my poor 
friend committed in the course of his 
harangue, but shall only dwell upon the mate- 
rial parts of the charge. 

He represented the prisoner as the offspring 
of Idleness and Discontent, who was at all 
times a sulky, sullen, and " eminently useless'' 
member of the community, and not unfrequent- 
ly a very dangerous one. He declared it to 
be his opinion, that in case she were to be 
suffered to prevail, mankind would soon 
become " too idle to go," and would all lie 
down and perish through indolence, or through 
forgetting that sustenance was necessary for 
the preservation of existence ; and concluded 
with painting the horrors which would attend 
such a depopulation of the earth, in such 
colours as made many weak minds regard the 
goddess with fear and abhorrence. 

Having concluded, the accused was called 
upon for her defence. She immediately, with 
a graceful gesture, lifted up the veil which 
concealed her face, and discovered a counte- 
nance so soft, so lovely, and so sweetly ex- 
pressive, as to strike the beholders with invol- 
untary admiration, and which, at one glance 
overturned all the flimsy sophistry of my poor 
friend the citizen ; and when the silver tones 
of her voice were heard, the murmurs, which 
until then had continually arisen from the 
crowd were hushed to a dead still, and the 
whole multitude stood transfixed in breathless 
attention,, As near as I can recollect, these 
were the words in which she addressed her- 
self to the throne of wisdom. 

I shall not deign to give a direct answer to 
the various insinuations which have been thrown 
cut against me by my accuser. Let it suffice 
that I declare my true history, in opposition 
to that which has been so artfully fabricated 
to my disadvantage. In that early age of the 
world, when mankind followed the peaceful 
avocations of a pastoral life only, and content- 
ment and harmony reigned in every vale, I 
was not known among men ; but when, in 
process of time, Ambition and Vice, with 
their attendant evils, were sent down as a 
scourge to the human race, I made my appear- 
ance. I am the offspring of Misfortune and 
Virtue, and was sent by Heaven to teach my 
parents how to support their afflictions with 
magnanimity. As I grew up, I became the 
intimate friend of the wisest among men. 1 



72 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



was the bosom friend of Plato, and other il- 
lustrious sages of antiquity, and was then 
often known by the name of Philosophy, 
though, in present times, when that title is 
usurped by mere makers of experiments, and 
inventors of blacking-cakes, I am only known 
by the appellation of Melancholy. So far 
from being of a discontented disposition, my 
very essence is pious and resigned content- 
ment. I teach my votaries to support every 
vicissitude of fortune with calmness and for- 
titude. It is mine to subdue the stormy pro- 
pensities of passion and vice, to foster and 
encourage the principles of benevolence and 
philanthropy, and to cherish and bring to 
perfection the seeds of virtue and wisdom. 
Though feared and hated by those who, like 
my accuser, are ignorant of my nature, I am 
courted and cherished by all the truly wise, 
the good, and the great ; the poet wooes me 
as the goddess of inspiration ; the true phi- 
losopher acknowledges himself indebted to 
me for his most expansive views of human 
nature ; the good man owes to me that hatred 
of the wrong and love of the right, and that 
disdain for the consequences which may result 
from the performance of his duties, which 
keeps him good ; and the religious flies to me 
for the only clear and unencumbered view of 
the attributes and perfections of the Deity. 
So far from being idle, my mind is ever on the 
wing in the regions of fancy, or that true phi- 
losophy which opens the book of human na- 
ture, and raises the soul above the evils 
incident to life. If I am useless, in the same 
degree were Plato and Socrates, Locke and 
Paley, useless ; it is true that my immediate 
influence is confined, but its effects are dissem- 
inated by means of literature over every age 
and nation, and mankind, in every generation, 
and in every clime, may look to me as their 
remote illuminator, the Original spring of the 
principal intellectual benefits they possess. 
But as there is no good without its attendant 
evil, so I have an elder sister, called Phrenzy, 
for whom I have often been mistaken, who 
sometimes follows close on my steps, and to 
her I owe much of the obloquy which is at- 
tached to my name ; though the puerile accu- 
sation which has just been brought against me 
turns on points which apply more exclusively 
to myself. 

She ceased, and a dead pause ensued. The 
multitude seemed struck with the fascination 
of her utterance and gesture, and the sounds 
of her voice still seemed to vibrate on every 
ear. The attention of the assembly, however, 
was soon recalled to the accuser, and their 



indignation at his baseness rose to such a 
height as to threaten general tumult, when 
the Goddess of Wisdom arose, and, waving 
her hand for silence, beckoned the prisoner 
to her, placed her on her right hand, and, with 
a sweet smile, acknowledged her for her old 
companion and friend. She then turned to 
the accuser, with a frown of severity so terri- 
ble, that I involuntarily started with terror 
from my poor misguided friend, and with the 
violence of the start I awoke, and, instead of 
the throne of the Goddess of Wisdom, and the 
vast assembly of people, beheld the first rays 
of the morning peeping over the eastern cloud ; 
and, instead of the loud murmurs of the 
incensed multitude, heard nothing but the 
soft gurgling of the river at my feet, and the 
rustling wing of the sky-lark, who was now 
beginning his first matin-song. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



(No. IV.) 






»fe 



'X.M; kv ee.\ki>i eira 



ISOCR. 



The world has often heard of fortune-hunt- 
ers, legacy-hunters, popularity -hunters, and 
hunters of various descriptions — one diversity, 
however, of this very extensive species has 
hitherto eluded public animadversion ; I allude 
to the class of friend-hunters — men who make 
it the business of their lives to acquire friends, 
in the hope, through their influence, to arrive 
at some desirable point of ambitious eminence. 
Of all the mortifications and anxieties to which 
mankind voluntarily subject themselves, from 
the expectation of future benefit, there are, per- 
haps, none more galling, none more insupport- 
able, than those attendant on friend-making — 
Show a man that you court his society, and it 
is a signal for him to treat you with neglect 
and contumely. Humour his passions, and he 
despises you as a sycophant. Pay implicit 
deference to his opinions, and he laughs at 
you for your folly. In all, he views you with 
contempt, as the creature of his will, and the 
slave of his caprice. I remember I once 
solicited the acquaintance and coveted the 
friendship of one man, and, thank God, I can 
yet say (and I hope on my death-bed I shall 
be able to say the same) of only one man. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



Germanicus was a character of considerable 
eminence in the literary world. He had the 
reputation not only of an enlightened under- 
standing and refined taste, but of openness of 
heart and goodness of disposition. His name 
always carried with it that weight and au- 
thority which are due to learning and genius 
in every situation. His manners were pol- 
ished, and his conversation elegant. In 
short, he possessed every qualification which 
could render him an enviable addition to the 
circle of every man's friends. With such a 
character, as I was then very young, I could 
not fail to feel an ambition of becoming ac- 
quainted, when the opportunity offered, and 
in a short time we were upon terms of famili- 
arity. To ripen this familiarity into friendship, 
as far as the most awkward diffidence would 
permit, was my strenuous endeavour. If his 
opinions contradicted mine, I immediately, 
without reasoning on the subject, conceded 
the point to him as a matter of course that he 
must be right, and by consequence that I must 
be wrong. Did he utter a witticirm, I was 
sure to laugh ; and if he looked grave, though 
nobody could tell why, it was mine to groan. 
By thus conforming myself to his humour, I 
flattered myself I was making some progress 
in his good graces, but I was soon undeceived. 
A man seldom cares much for that which costs 
him no pains to procure. Whether Germanicus 
found me a troublesome visitor, of whether he 
was really displeased with something I had 
unwittingly said or done, certain it is, that 
when I met him one day, in company with 
persons of apparent figure, he had lost all 
recollection of my features. I called upon 
him, but Germanicus was not at home. Again 
and again I gave a hesitating knock at the 
great man's door — all was to no purpose. He 
was still not at home. The sly meaning, how- 
ever, which was couched in the sneer of the 
servant the last time that, half ashamed of my 
errand, I made my inquiries at his house, 
convinced me of what I ought to have known 
before, that Germanicus was at home to all 
the world save me. I believe, with all my 
seeming humility, I am a confounded proud 
fellow at bottom ; my rage at this discovery, 
therefore, may be better conceived than de- 
scribed. Ten thousand curses did I imprecate 
on the foolish vanity which led me to solicit 
the friendship of my superior, and again and 
again did I vow down eternal vengeance on 
my head, if I evermore condescended thus to 
tourt the acquaintance of man. To this reso- 
lution I believe I shall ever adhere. If I am 
destined to make any progress in the world, 
it will be by my own individual exertions. 
As I elbow my way through the crowded vale 
of life, I will never 



73 

on my selfish neighbour for assistance. If my 
strength give way beneath the pressure of 
calamity, I shall sink without his whine of 
hypocritical condolence ; and if I do sink, let 
him kick me into a ditch, and go about his 
business. I asked not his assistance while 
living, it will be of no service to me when 
dead. 

Believe me, reader, whoever thou mayest 
be, there are few among mortals whose friend- 
ship, when acquired, will repay thee for the 
meanness of solicitation. If a man voluntarily 
holds out his hand to thee, take it with cau- 
tion. If thou find him honest, be not backward 
to receive his proffered assistance, and be 
anxious, when occasion shall require, to yield 
to him thine own. A real friend is the most 
valuable blessing a man can possess, and, 
mark me, it is by far the most rare. It is a black 
swan. But, whatever thou mayest do, solicit 
not friendship. If thou art young, and would 
make thy way in the world, bind thyself a 
seven years' apprentice to a city tallow-chand- 
ler, and thou mayest in time come to be lord 
mayor. Many people have made their for- 
tunes at a tailor's board. Periwig-makers 
have been known to buy their country-seats, 
and bellows-menders have started their curri- 
cles ; but seldom, very seldom, has the man 
who placed his dependence on the friendship 
of his fellow-men arrived at even the shadow 
of the honours to which, through that medium, 
he aspired. Nay, even if thou shouldst find a 
friend ready to lend thee a helping hand, the 
moment, by his assistance, thou hast gained 
some little eminence, he will be the first to 
hurl thee down to thy primitive, and now, 
perhaps, irremediable obscurity. 

Yet I see no more reason for complaint on 
the ground of the fallacy of human friendship, 
than I do for any other ordonnance of nature 
which may appear to run counter to our hap- 
piness. Man is naturally a selfish creature, 
and it is only by the aid of philosophy that he 
can so far conquer the defects of his being, as 
to be capable of disinterested friendship. 
Who, then, can expect to find that benign 
disposition, which manifests itself in acts of 
disinterested benevolence and spontaneous 
affection, a common visitor? Who can preach 
philosophy to the mob ? 



The recluse, who does not easily assimilate 
with the herd of mankind, and whose man- 
ners with difficulty bend to the peculiarites of 
others, is not likely to have many real friends. 
His enjoyments, therefore, must be solitary, 
J lone, and melancholy. His only friend is 
in any emergency, call J himself. As he sits immersed in reverie by 

K 



'/4 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



his midnight fire, and hears without the wild I This elegant little poem has met with a pe- 
gusts of wind fitfully careering over the plain, I cuiiar fate in this country : half a century ago 
he listens sadly attentive ; and as the varied i it was regarded as utterly repugnant to the 



intonations of the howling blast articulate to 
his enthusiastic ear, he converses with the 
spirits of the departed, while, between each 
dreary pause of the storm, he holds solitary 
communion with himself. Such is the social 
intercourse of the recluse ; yet he frequently 
feels the soft consolations of friendship. A 
heart formed for the gentler emotions of the 
soul, often feels as strong an interest for what 
are called brutes, as most bipeds affect to feel 
for each other. Montaigne had his cat; I 
have read of a man whose only friend was a 
large spider ; and Trenck, in his dungeon, 
would sooner have lost his right hand than the 
poor little mouse, which, grown confident with 
indulgence, used to beguile the tedious hours 
of imprisonment with its gambols. For my 
own part, I believe my dog, who, at this mo- 
ment, seated on his hinder legs, is wistfully 
surveying me, as if he was conscious of all 
that is passing in my mind :— my dog, I say, 
is as sincere, and, whatever the world may 
say, nearly as dear a friend, as any I possess ; 
and, when I shall receive that summons which 
may not now be far distaut, he will whine a 
funeral requiem over my grave, more piteous- 
ly than all the hired mourners in Christen- 
dom. Well, well, poor Bob has had a kind 
master of me, and, for my own part, I verily 
believe there are few things on this earth I 
shall leave with more regret than this faithful 
companion of the happy hours of my infancy. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. V.) 



Un Sonnet sans defaut oaut seul tin long poe?ne, 
Mais en vain mille auteurs y pensent arriver ; 

A peine 

peut-on admirer deux ou trois enire mille. 

Boileau. 



There is no species of poetry which is bet- 
ter adapted to the taste of a melancholy man 
than the sonnet. While its brevity precludes 
the possibility of its becoming tiresome, and 
its full and expected close accords well with 
his dejected, and perhaps somewhat languid 
tone of mind, its elegiac delicacy and querimo- 
nious plaintiveness come in pleasing con- 
sonance with his feelings. 



nature of our language, while at present it is 
the popular vehicle of the most admired sen- 
timents of our best living poets. This remark- 
able mutation in the opinions of our country- 
men, may, however, be accounted for on plain 
and common principles. The earlier English 
sonneteers confined themselves in general too 
strictly to the Italian model, as well in the dis- 
position of the rhymes, as in the cast of the 
ideas. A sonnet with them was only another 
word for some metaphysical conceit or clumsy 
antithesis, contained in fourteen harsh lines, 
full of obscure inversions and ill-managed ex- 
pletives. They bound themselves down to a 
pattern which was in itself faulty, and they 
met with the common fate of servile imitators, 
in retaining all the defects of their original, 
while they suffered the beauties to escape in 
the process. Their sonnets are like copies of 
a bad picture, however accurately copied, 
they are still bad. Our contemporaries, on 
the contrary, have given scope to their genius 
in the sonnet without restraint, sometimes 
even growing licentious in their liberty, set- 
ting at defiance those rules which form its 
distinguishing peculiarity, and, under the 
name of sonnet, soaring or falling into ode or 
elegy. Their compositions, of course, are im- 
pressed with all those excellencies which 
would have marked their respective produc- 
tions in any similar walk of poetry. 

It has never been disputed that the sonnet 
first arrived at celebrity in the Italian : a 
language which, as it abounds in a musical 
similarity of terminations, is more eminently 
qualified to give ease and eloquence to the 
legitimate sonnet, restricted as it is to stated 
and frequently-recurring rhymes of the same 
class. As to the inventors of this little struc- 
ture of verse, they are involved in impenetra- 
ble obscurity. Some authors have ascribed it 
singly to Guitone D' Arezzo, an Italian poet 
of the thirteenth century, but they have no 
sort of authority to adduce in support of their 
assertions. Arguing upon probabilities, with 
some slight coincidental corroborations, I 
should be inclined to maintain that its origin 
may be referred to an earlier period ; that it 
may be looked for among the Provencals, who 
left scarcely any combination of metrical 
sounds unattempted ; and who, delighting as 
they did in sound and jingle, might very pos- 
sibly strike out this harmonious stanza of 
fourteen lines. Be this as it may, Dante and 
Petrarch were the first poets who rendered it 
popular, and to Dante and Petrarch therefore 
we must resort for its required rules. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



In an ingenious paper of Dr. Drake's 
** Literary Hours," a book which I have read 
again and again with undiminished pleasure, 
the merits of the various English writers in this 
delicate mode of composition are appreciated 
with much justice and discrimination. His ven- 
eration for Milton, however, has, if I may ven- 
ture to oppose my judgment to his, carried him 
too far in praise of his sonnets. Those to the 
Nightingale and to Mr. Lawrence are, I think, 
alone entitled to the praise of mediocrity, and, 
if my memory fail me not, my opinion is sanc- 
tioned by the testimony of our late illustrious 
biographer of the poets. 

The sonnets of Drummond are characterized 
as exquisite. It is somewhat strange, if this 
description be just, that they should so long 
have sunk into utter oblivion, to be revived 
only by a species of black-letter mania, 
which prevailed during the latter half of the 
eighteenth century, and of which some ves- 
tiges yet remain ; the more especially as Dr. 
Johnson, to whom they could scarcely be un- 
known, tells us, that "The fabric of the 
sonnet has never succeeded in our language." 
For my own part I can say nothing of them. 
I have long sought a copy of Drummond's 
works, and I have sought it in vain ; but from 
specimens which I have casually met with, in 
quotations, I am forcibly inclined to favour 
the idea, that, as they possess natural and 
pathetic sentiments, clothed in tolerably har- 
monious language, they are entitled to the 
praise which has been so liberally bestowed 
on them. 

Sir Philip Sidney's Astrophel and Stella 
consists of a number of sonnets, which have 
been unaccountably passed over by Dr. Drake, 
and all our other critics who have written on this 
subject. Many of them are eminently beauti- 
ful. The works of this neglected poet may 
occupy a future number of my lucubrations. 

Excepting these two poets, I believe there 
is scarcely a writer who has arrived at any de- 
gree of excellence in the sonnet, until of late 
years, when our vernacular bards have raised 
it to a degree of eminence and dignity among 
the various kinds of poetical composition, 
which seems almost incompatible with its very 
circumscribed limits. 

Passing over the classical compositions of 
Warton, which are formed more on the model of 
the Greek epigram, or epitaph, than the Italian 
sonnet, Mr. Bowles and Charlotte Smith are 
the first modern writers who have met with 
distinguished success in the sonnet. Those of 



75 

cellence in this department. To much natur- 
al and accurate description, they unite a strain 
of the most exquisitely tender and delicate 
sentiment; and, with a nervous strength of 
diction, and a wild freedom of versification, 
they combine an euphonious melody, and con- 
sonant cadence, unequalled in the English 
language. While they possess, however, the 
superior merit of an original style, they are 
not unfrequently deformed by instances of that 
ambitious singularity which is but too fre- 
quently its concomitant. Of these the intro- 
duction of rhymes long since obsolete, is not 
the least striking. Though, in some cases, 
these revivals of antiquated phrase have a 
pleasing effect, yet they are oftentimes un- 
couth and repulsive. Mr. Bowles has almost 
always thrown aside the common rules of the 
sonnet ; his pieces have no more claim to that 
specific denomination, than that they are con- 
fined to fourteen lines. How far this devia- 
tion from established principle is justifiable, 
may be disputed : for if, on the one hand, it 
be alleged that the confinement to the stated 
repetition of rhymes, so distant and frequent, 
is a restraint which is not compensated by an 
adequate effect on the other, it must be con- 
ceded, that these little poems are no longer 
sonnetf than while they conform to the rules 
of the sonnet, and that the moment they 
forsaj e them, they ought to resign the appeN 
lation. 

The name bears evident affinity to the 
Italian sondire, " to resound" — " sing around," 
which originated in the Latin sonans, — sound- 
ing, jingling, ringing: or, indeed, it may come 
immediately from the French sonner, to sound, 
or ring, in which language, it is observable, 
we first meet with the word sonnette, where 
it signifies a little bell, and sonnettier, a maker 
of little bells ; and this derivation affords a 
presumption, almost amounting to certainty, 
that the conjecture before advanced, that the 
sonnet originated with the Provencals, is well 
founded. It is somewhat strange that these 
contending derivations have not been before 
observed, as they tend to settle a question, 
which, however intrinsically unimportant, is 
curious and has been much agitated. 

But, wherever the name originated, it evi- 
dently bears relation only to the peculiarity 
of a set of chiming and jingling terminations, 
and of course can no longer be applied 
with propriety where that peculiarity is not 
preserved. 

The single stanza of fourteen lines, properly 
varied in their correspondent closes, is, not- 



the former, in particular, are standards of ex- j withstanding, so well adapted for the expres- 



76 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



sion of any pathetic sentiment, and is so pleas- 
ing and satisfactory to the ear when once 
accustomed to it, that our poetry would suffer 
a material loss were it to be disused through a 
rigid adherence to mere propriety of name. 
At the same time, our language does not sup- 
ply a sufficiency of similar terminations to 
render the strict observance of its rules at all 
easy, or compatible with ease or elegance. 
The only question, therefore, is, whether the 
musical effect produced by the adherence to 
this difficult structure of verse overbalance 
the restraint it imposes on the poet, and in 
case we decide in the negative, whether we 
ought to preserve the denomination of sonnet, 
when we utterly renounce the very peculiari- 
ties which procured it that cognomen. 

In the present enlightened age, I think it 
will not be disputed that mere jingle and 
sound ought invariably to be sacrificed to sen- 
timent and expression. Musical effect is a 
very subordinate consideration ; it is the gilding 
to the cornices of a Vitruvian edifice ; the 
colouring to a shaded design of Michael 
Angelo. In its place, it adds to the effect of 
the whole ; but, when rendered a principal 
object of attention, it is ridiculous and disgust- 
ing. Rhyme is no necessary adjunct of true 
poetry. Southey's Thalaba is a fine poem, with 
no rhyme, and very little measure or metre; and 
the production which is reduced to mere prose, 
by being deprived of its jingle, could never 
possess, in any state the marks of inspiration. 

So far, therefore, I am of opinion that it is 
ad? *-ible to renounce the Italian fabric alto- 
gether. We have already sufficient restric- 
tions laid upon us by the metrical laws of our 
native tongue, and I do not see any reason, 
out of a blind regard for precedent, to tie our- 
selves to a difficult structure of verse, which 
probably originated with the Troubadours, or 
wandering bards of France and Normandy, or 
with a yet ruder race, one which is not pro- 
ductive of any rational effect, and which only 
pleases the ear by frequent repetition, as men 
who have once had the greatest aversion to 
strong wines and spirituous liquors, are, by 
habit, at last brought to regard them as deli- 
cacies. 

In advancing this opinion, I am aware that 
1 am opposing myself to the declared senti- 
ments of many individuals whom I greatly re- 
spect and admire. Miss Seward (and Miss 
Seward is in herself a host) has, both theoret- 
ically and practically, defended the Italian 
structure. Mr. Capel Lofft has likewise fa- 
voured the world with many sonnets, in which 
he shows his approval of the legitimate model 



by his adherence to its rules, and many of the 
beautiful poems of Mrs. Lofft, published in 
the Monthly Mirror, are likewise successfully 
formed by those rules. Much, however, as I 
admire these writers, and ample as is the cre- 
dence I give to their critical discrimination, I 
cannot, on mature reflection, subscribe to their 
position of the expediency of adopting this 
structure in our poetry, and I attribute their 
success in it more to their individual powers, 
which would have surmounted much greater 
difficulties, than to the adaptability of this 
foreign fabric to our stubborn and intractable 
language. 

If the question, however, turn only on the 
propriety of giving to a poem a name which 
must be acknowledged to be entirely inappro- 
priate, and to which it can have no sort of 
claim, I must confess that it is manifestly in- 
defensible; and we must then either pitch 
upon another appellation for our quatorzain, 
or banish it from our language ; a measure 
which every lover of true poetry must sincerely 
lament. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. VI.) 



Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desart air. 



Gray. 



Poetry is a blossom of very delicate growth ; 
it requires the maturing influence of vernal 
suns, and every encouragement of culture and 
attention, to bring it to its natural perfection. 
The pursuits of the mathematician, or the me- 
chanical genius, are such as require rather 
strength and insensibility of mind, than that 
exquisite and finely-wrought susceptibility, 
which invariably marks the temperament of 
the true poet; and it is for this reason, that, 
while men of science have not unfrequently 
arisen from the abodes of poverty and labour, 
very few legitimate children of the Muse have 
ever emerged from the shades of hereditary 
obscurity. 

It is painful to reflect how many a bard now 
lies nameless and forgotten, in the narrow 
house, who, had he been born to compel 
tence and leisure, might have usurped the 
laurels from the most distinguished person- 
ages in the temple of Fame. The very 



consciousness of merit itself often acts in direct 
opposition to a stimulus to exertion, by excit- 
ing that mournful indignation at supposititious 
neglect, which urges a sullen concealment of 
talent, and drives its possessor to that misan- 
thropic discontent which preys on the vitals, 
and soon produces untimely mortality. A 
sentiment like this has, no doubt, often actu- 
ated beings, who attracted notice, perhaps, 
while they lived, only by their singularity, 
and who were forgotten almost ere their pa- 
rent earth had closed over their heads, — beings 
who lived but to mourn and to languish for 
what they were never destined to enjoy, and 
whose exalted endowments were buried with 
them in their graves, by the want of a little of 
that superfluity which serves to pamper the 
debased appetites of the enervated sons of 
luxury and sloth. 

The present age, however, has furnished us 
with two illustrious instances of poverty burst- 
ing through the cloud of surrounding impedi- 
ments into the full blaze of notoriety and em- 
inence. I allude to the two Bloomfields, 
bards who may challenge a comparison with 
the most distinguished favourites of the Muse, 
and who both passed the day-spring of life, in 
labour, indigence, and obscurity. 

The author of the Farmer's Boy hath already 
received the applause he justly deserved. It 
yet remains for the Essay on War to enjoy all 
the distinction it so richly merits, as well from 
its sterling worth, as from the circumstance 
of its author. Whether the present age will 
be inclined to do it full justice, may indeed be 
feared. Had Mr. Nathaniel Bloomfield made 
his appearance in the horizon of letters prior 
to his brother, he would undoubtedly have 
been considered as a meteor of uncommon at- 
traction ; the critics would have admired, be- 
cause it would have been the fashion to ad- 
mire. But it is to be apprehended that our 
countrymen become inured to phenomena ; — 
it is to be apprehended that the frivolity of the 
age cannot endure a repetition of the uncom- 
mon—that it will no longer be the rage to 
patronise indigent merit : that the beau monde 
will therefore neglect, and that, by a neces- 
sary consequence, the critics will sneer ! ! 

Nevertheless, sooner or later, merit will 
meet with its reward ; and though the popu- 
larity of Mr. Bloomfield may be delayed, he 
must, at one time or other, receive the meed 
due to its deserts. Posterity will judge im- 
partially ; and if bold and vivid images, and 
original conceptions, luminously displayed, 
and judiciously apposed, have any claim to 
the regard of mankind, the name of Nathaniel 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 77 

Bloomfield will not be without its high and 
appropriate honours. 



Rosseau very truly observes, that with 
whatever talent a man may be born, the art of 
writing is not easily obtained. If this be ap- 
plicable to men enjoying every advantage of 
scholastic initiation, how much more forcibly 
must it apply to the offspring of a poor village 
tailor, untaught, and destitute both of the 
means and the time necessary for the cultiva- 
tion of the mind ! If the art of writing be of diffi- 
cult attainment to those who make it the study 
of their lives, what must it be to him, who, per- 
haps, for the first forty years of his life, never 
entertained a thought that any thing he could 
write would be deemed worthy the attention of 
the public ! — whose only time for rumination 
was such as a sedentary and sickly employment 
would allow ; on the tailor's board, surround- 
ed with men, perhaps, of depraved and rude 
habits, and impure conversation ! 

And yet, that Mr. N. Bloomfield's poems 
display acuteness of remark, and delicacy of 
sentiment, combined with much strength, and 
considerable selection of diction, few will deny. 
The Paean to Gunpowder would alone prove 
both his power of language, and the fertility 
of his imagination ; and the following extract 
presents him to us in the still higher character 
of a bold and vivid painter. Describing the 
field after a battle, he says, 

Now here and there, about the horrid field, 
Striding across the dying and the dead, 
S„talks up a man, by strength superior, 
Or skill and prowess in the arduous fight, 
Preserv'd alive : — fainting he looks around ; 
Fearing pursuit— not caring to pursue. 
The supplicating voice of bitterest moans, 
Contortions of excruciating pain, 
The shriek of torture, and the groan of death, 
Surround him ; — and" as Night her mantle 

spreads, 
To veil the horrors of the mourning field, 
With cautious step shaping his devious way, 
He seeks a covert where to hide and rest : 
At every leaf that rustles in the breeze 
Starting, he grasps his sword ; and every nerve 
Is ready strain'd, for combat or for flight. 

P. 12. Essaij on War. 

If Mr. Bloomfield had written nothing be- 
sides the Elegy on the Enclosure of Honing- 
ton Green, he Would have had a right to be 
considered as a poet of no mean excellence. 
The heart which can read passages like the 
following without a sympathetic emotion, must 
be dead to every feeling of sensibility. 



78 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



STANZA VI. 



The proud city's gay wealthy train, 

Who nought but refinement adore. 
May wonder to hear me complain 

That Honington Green is no more ; 
But if to the church you e'er went, 

If you knew what the village has been, 
You will sympathize while I lament 

The enclosure of Honington Green. 

VII. 

That no more upon Honington Green 

Dwells the matron whom most I revere, 
If by pert Observation unseen, 

I e'en now could indulge a fond tear. 
Ere her bright morn of life was o'ercast, 

When my senses first woke to the scene, 
Some short happy hours she had past 

On the margin of Honington Green. 

VIII. 

Her parents with plenty were blest, 

And num'rous her children, and young, 
Youth's blossoms her cheek yet possest, 

And melody woke when she sung : 
A widow so youthful to leave, 

(Early clos'd the blest days he had seen,) 
My father was laid in his grave, 

In the church-yard on Honington Green. 



XXI. 

Dear to me was the wild thorny hill, 

And dear the brown heath's sober scene ; 

And youth shall find happiness still, 
Though he rove not on common or green. 



XXII. 

So happily flexile man's make, 

So pliantly docile his mind, 
Surrounding impressions we take, 

And bliss in each circumstance find. 
The youths of a more polish'd age 

Shall not wish these rude commons to -see ; 
To the bird that's inur'd to the cage, 

It would not be bliss to be free. 

There is a sweet and tender melancholy per- 
vades the elegiac ballad efforts of Mr. Bloom- 
field, which has the most indescribable effects 
on the heart. Were the versification a little 
more polished, in some instances, they would 
be read with unmixed delight. It is to be 
hoped that he will cultivate this engaging 



species of composition, and, (if 1 may venture 
to throw out the hint,) if judgment may be 
formed from the poems he has published, he 
would excel in sacred poetry. Most heartily 
do I recommend the lyre of David to this en 
gaging bard. Divine topics have seldom been 
touched upon with success by our modern 
Muses : they afford a field in which he would 
have few competitors, and it is a field worthy 
of his abilities. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. VII.*) 

If the situation of man, in the present life, 
be considered in all its relations and depend- 
encies, a striking inconsistency will be appa- 
rent to a very cursory observer. We have 
sure warrant for believing that our abode here 
is to form a comparatively insignificant part of 
our existence, and that on our conduct in this 
life will depend the happiness of the life to 
come ; yet our actions daily give the lie to this 
proposition, inasmuch as we commonly act 
like men who have no thought but for the pres- 
ent scene, and to whom the grave is the 
boundary of anticipation. But this is not the 
only paradox which humanity furnishes to the 
eye of a thinking man. It is very generally 
the case, that we spend our whole lives in the 
pursuit of objects, which common experience 
informs us are not capable of conferring that 
pleasure and satisfaction which we expect 
from their enjoyment. Our views are uniformly 
directed to one point -.—happiness in whatever 
garb it be clad, and under whatever figure 
shadowed, is the great aim of the busy multi- 
tudes, whom we behold toiling through the 
vale of life, in such an infinite diversity of oc- 
cupation, and disparity of views. But the 
misfortune is, that we seek for Happiness 
where she is not to be found, and the cause of 
wonder, that the experience of ages should 
not have guarded us against so fatal and so 
universal an error. 

It would be an amusing speculation to con- 
sider the various points after which our fellow- 
mortals are incessantly straining, and in the 
possession of which they have placed that 

* My predecessor, the Spectator, considering that the 
seventh part of our time is set apart for religious purposes, 
devoted every seventh lucubration to matters connected 
with Christianity, and the severer part of morals : I trust 
none of my readers will regret that, in this instance, I fol- 
low so good an example. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS, 



79 



imaginary chief good which we are all doomed 
to covet, but which, perhaps, none of us, in 
this sublunary state, can attain. At present, 
however, we are led to considerations of a 
more important nature. We turn from the in- 
consistencies observable in the prosecution of 
our subordinate pursuits, from the partial fol- 
iies of individuals, to the general delusion 
which seems to envelope the whole human 
race :— -the delusion under whose influence they 
lose sight of the chief end of their being, and 
cut down the sphere of their hopes and enjoy- 
ments to a few rolling years, and that, too, in 
a scene where they know there is neither per- 
fect fruition nor permanent delight. 

The faculty of contemplating mankind in the 
abstract, apart from those prepossessions 
which, both by nature and the power of habi- 
tual associations, would intervene to cloud our 
view, is only to be obtained by a life of virtue 
and constant meditation, by temperance, and 
purity of thought. Whenever it is attained, 
it must greatly tend to correct our motives — to 
simplify our desires — and to excite a spirit of 
contentment and pious resignation. We then, 
at length, are enabled to contemplate our be- 
ing, in all its bearings, and in its full extent, 
and the result is, that superiority to common 
views, and indifference to the things of this 
life, which should be the fruit of all true phi- 
losophy, and which, therefore, are the more 
peculiar fruits of that system of philosophy 
which is called the Christian. 

To a mind thus sublimed, the great mass of 
mankind will appear like men led astray by 
the workings of wild and distempered imagin- 
ations — visionaries who are wandering after 
the phantoms of their own teeming brains, and 
their anxious solicitude for mere matters of 
worldly accommodation and ease will seem 
more like the effects of insanity than of pru- 
dent foresight, as they are esteemed. To the 
awful importance of futurity he will observe 
them utterly insensible; and he will see with 
astonishment the few allotted years of human 
life wasted in providing abundance they will 
never enjoy, while the eternity they are placed 
here to prepare for, scarcely employs a mo- 
ment's consideration. And yet the mass of 
these poor wanderers in the ways of error, 
have the light of truth shining on their very 
foreheads. They have the revelation of Al- 
mighty God himself, to declare to them the 
folly of worldly cares, and the necessity for 
providing for a future state of existence. They 
know by the experience of every preceding 
generation, that a very small portion of joy is 
allowed to the poor sojourners in this vale of 



tears, and that, too, embittered with much 
pain and fear, and yet every one is willing to 
flatter himself that he shall fare better than 
his predecessor in the same path, and that 
happiness will smile on him which hath 
frowned on all his progenitors. 

Still it would be wrong to deny the human 
race all claim to temporal felicity. There may 
be comparative, although very little positive 
happiness ; — whoever is more exempt from 
the cares of the world and the calamities inci- 
dent to humanity — whoever enjoys more con- 
tentment of mind, and is more resigned to the 
dispensations of Divine Providence— in a 
word, whoever possesses more of the true 
spirit of Christianity than his neighbours, is 
comparatively happy. But the number of 
these, it is to be feared, is very small. Were 
all men equally enlightened by the illumina- 
tions of truth, as emanating from the spirit of 
Jehovah himself, they would all concur in the 
pursuit of virtuous ends by virtuous means — 
as there would be no vice, there would be 
very little infelicity. Every pain would be 
met with fortitude, every affliction with resig- 
nation. We should then all look back to the 
past with complacency, and to the future with 
hope. Even this unstable state of being would 
have many exquisite enjoyments— the princi- 
pal of which would be the anticipation of that 
approaching state of beatitude to which we 
might then look with confidence, through the 
medium of that atonement of which we should 
be partakers, and our acceptance, by virtue 
of which, would be sealed by that purity of 
mind of which human nature is, of itself, in- 
capable. But it is from the mistakes and 
miscalculations of mankind, to which their 
fallen natures are continually prone, that 
arises that flood of misery which overwhelms 
the whole race, and resounds wherever the 
footsteps of man have penetrated. It is the 
lamentable error of placing happiness in 
vicious indulgences, or thinking to pursue it by 
vicious means. It is the blind folly of sacri- 
ficing the welfare of the future to the opportu- 
nity of immediate guilty gratification, which 
destroys the harmony of society, and poisons 
the peace, not only of the immediate procre- 
ators of the errors — not only of the identical 
actors of the vices themselves, but of all those 
of their fellows who fall within the reach of 
their influence or example, or who are in any 
wise connected with them by the ties of blood. 

I would therefore exhort you earnestly — 
you who are yet unskilled in the ways of the 
world — to beware on what object you concen- 
tre your hopes. Pleasures may allure — pride 
or ambition may stimulate, but their fruits are 



80 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



hollow and deceitful, and they afford no sure, 
no solid satisfaction. You are placed on the 
earth in a state of probation — your continuance 
here will be, at the longest, a very short 
period, and when you are called from hence 
you plunge into an eternity, the completion of 
which will be in correspondence to your past 
life, unutterably happy or inconceivably mis- 
erable. Your fate will probably depend on 
your early pursuits — it will be these which 
will give the turn to your character and to 
your pleasures. I beseech you, therefore, 
with a meek and lowly spirit, to read the 
pages of that Book, which the wisest and best 
of men have acknowledged to be the word of 
God. You will there find a rule of moral 
conduct, such as the world never had any idea 
of before its divulgation. If you covet earthly 
happiness, it is only to be found in the path 
you will find there laid down, and I can con- 
fidently promise you, in a life of simplicity 
and purity, a life passed in accordance with 
the Divine word, such substantial bliss, such 
unruffled peace, as is no where else to be 
found. All other schemes of earthly pleasure 
are fleeting and unsatisfactory. They all 
entail upon them repentance and bitterness of 
thought. This alone endureth for ever — this 
alone embraces equally the present and the 
future — this alone can arm a man against 
every calamity — can alone shed the balm of 
peace over that scene of life when pleasures 
have lost their zest, and the mind can no 
longer look forward to the dark and mysteri- 
ous future. Above all, beware of the ignus 
fatuus of false philosophy: that must be a very 
defective system of ethics which will not bear 
a man through the most trying stage of his 
existence, and I know of none that will do it 
but the Christian. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



(No. VIII. ) 



'Oo-Tts Xcyav; ya.% xa.£uz.ccra.$-/ l 7iv l v u; Xa-Gcov 
taois 7>i y u<ri¥ ru/Mio-rigoi xa.xot- 

Anaxandrides apud Suidam. 



Mucirhas been said of late on the subject of 
inscriptive writing, and that, in my opinion, to 
very little purpose. "Dr. Drake, when treating 
on this topic, is, for once, inconclusive ; but 



his essay does credit to his discernment, how- 
ever little it may honour him as a promulgator 
of the laws of criticism : the exquisite speci- 
mens it contains prove that the doctor has a 
feeling of propriety and general excellence, 
although he may be unhappy in defining them. 
Boileau says, briefly, " Les inscriptions doivent 
etre simples, courtes, et familiar es." We have, 
however, many examples of this kind of writ- 
ing in our language, which although they 
possess none of these qualities, are esteemed 
excellent. Akenside's classic imitations are 
not at all simple, nothing short, and the very re- 
verse of familiar, yet who can deny that they 
are beautiful, and in some instances appro- 
priate ? Southey's inscriptions are noble 
pieces ; — for the opposite qualities of tender- 
ness and dignity, sweetness of imagery and 
terseness of moral, unrivalled ; they are per- 
haps wanting in propriety, and (which is the 
criterion) produce a much better effect in a 
book, than they would on a column or a ceno- 
taph. There is a certain chaste and majestic 
gravity expected from the voice of tombs and 
monuments, which probably would displease 
in epitaphs never intended to be engraved, 
and inscriptions for obelisks which never ex- 
isted. 

When a man visits the tomb of an illustrious 
character, a spot remarkable for some memor- 
able deed, or a scene connected by its natural 
sublimity with the higher feelings of the 
breast, he is in a mood only for the nervous, 
the concise, and the impressive ; and he will 
turn with disgust alike from the puerile con- 
ceits of the epigrammatist, and the tedious 
prolixity of the herald. It is a nice thing to 
address the mind in the workings of generous 
enthusiasm. As words are not capable of 
exciting such an effervescence of the sublimer 
affections, so they can do little towards in- 
creasing it. Their office is rather to point 
these feelings to a beneficial purpose, and by 
some noble sentiment, or exalted moral, to im- 
part to the mind that pleasure which results 
from warm emotions when connected with the 
virtuous and the generous. 

In the composition of inscriptive pieces, 
great attention must be paid to local and 
topical propriety. The occasion, and the 
place, must not only i-egulate the tenor, but 
even the style of an inscription : for what, in 
one case, would be proper and agreeable, in 
another would be impertinent and disgusting. 
But these rules may always be taken for 
granted, that an inscription should be un- 
affected and free from conceits ; that no sen- 
timent should be introduced of a trite or hack- 
nied nature ; and that the design and the 



moral to be inculcated should be of sufficient 
importance to merit the reader's attention, 
and ensure his regard. Who would think of 
setting a stone up in the wilderness to tell the 
traveller what he knew before, or what, when 
he had learned for the first time, was not 
worth the knowing ? It would be equally ab- 
surd to call aside his attention to a simile or 
an epigrammatic point. Wit on a monument, 
is like a jest from a judge, or a philosopher 
cutting capers. It is a severe mortification to 
meet with flippancy where we looked for 
solemnity, and meretricious elegance where 
the occasion led us to expect the unadorned 
majesty of truth. 

That branch of inscriptive writing which 
commemorates the virtues of departed worth, 
or points out the ashes of men who yet live in 
the admiration of their posterity, is, of all 
others, the most interesting, and, if properly 
managed, the most useful. 

It is not enough to proclaim to the observer 
that he is drawing near to the reliques of the 
deceased genius,— the occasion seems to pro- 
voke a few reflections. If these be natural, 
they will be in unison with the feelings of 
the reader, and, if they tend where they 
ought to tend, they will leave him better than 
they found him. But these reflections must not 
be too much prolonged. They must rather be 
hints than dissertations. It is sufficient to 
start the idea, and the imagination of the 
reader will pursue the train to much more ad- 
vantage than the writer could do by words. 

Panegyric is seldom judicious in the epitaphs 
on public characters, for, if it be deserved, it 
cannot need publication, and if it be exagge- 
rated, it will only serve to excite ridicule. 
When employed in memorizing the retired 
virtues of domestic life, and qualities which, 
though they only served to cheer the little 
circle of privacy, still deserved, from their un- 
frequency, to triumph, at least, for a while, 
over the power of the grave, it may be interest- 
ing and salutary in its effects. To this pur- 
pose, however, it is rarely employed. An 
epitaph-book will seldom supply the exi- 
gencies of character ; and men of talents are 
not always, even in these favoured times, at 
hand to eternize the virtues of private life. 

The following epitaph, by Mr. Hayley, is 
inscribed on a monument to the memory of 
Cowper, in the church of East Dereham : 

" Ye who with warmth the public triumph feel 
Of talents dignified by sacred zeal, 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. gl 

Here to Devotion's bard devoutly just, 

Pay your fond tribute due to Cow per s 

dust ! 
England, exulting in his spotless fame, 
Ranks with her dearest sons his favourite 

name: 
Sense, Fancy, Wit, conspire not all to raise 
So clear a title to Affection's praise : 
His highest honours to the heart belong ; 
His virtues formed the magic of his song." 



" This epitaph," says a periodical critic,* " is 
simply elegant, and appropriately just." I 
regard this sentence as peculiarly unfortunate, 
for the epitaph seems to me to be elegant with- 
out simplicity, and just without propriety. No 
one will deny that it is correctly written, and 
that it is not destitute of grace ; but in what 
consists its simplicity I am at a loss to ima- 
gine. The initial address is laboured and cir- 
cumlocutory. There is something artificial 
rather than otherwise in the personification of 
England, and her ranking the poet's name 
" with her dearest sons," instead of with those 
of her dearest sons, is like ranking poor John 
Doe with a proper lonafide son of Adam, in a 
writ of arrest. Sense, Fancy, and Wit, " rais- 
ing a title," and tha$ to " Affection's praise," 
is not very simple, and not over intelligible. 
Again, the epitaph is just because it is strictly 
true ; but it is by no means, therefore, appro- 
priate. Who that would turn aside to visit 
the ashes of Cowper, would need to be told 
that England ranks him with her favourite 
sons, and that sense, fancy, and wit, were not 
his greatest honours, for that his virtues 
formed the magic of his song; or who, hearing 1 
this, would be the better for the information ? 
Had Mr. Hayley been employed in the monu- 
mental praises of a private man, this might 
have been excusable, but speaking of such a 
man as Cowper, it is idle. This epitaph is 
not appropriate, therefore, arid we have shown 
that it is not remarkable for simplicity. Per- 
haps the respectable critics themselves may 
not feel inclined to dispute this point very 
tenaciously. Epithets are very convenient 
little things for rounding off a period ; and it 
will not be the first time that truth has been 
sacrificed to verbosity and antithesis. 



To measure lances with Hayley may be es- 
teemed presumptuous ; but probably the fol- 
lowing, although much inferior as a composi- 
tion, would have had more effect than his 
polished and harmonious lines. 

* The Monthly Reviewer. 



82 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT 



MEMORY OF COWPER. 

Reader ! if with no vulgar sympathy 

Thou view'st the wreck of genius and of 

worth, 
Stay thou thy footsteps near this hallow'd 

spot. 
Here Cowper rests. Although renown have 

made 
His name familiar to thine ear, this stone 
May tell thee that his virtues were above 
The common portion : — that the voice, now 

hush'd 
In death, was once serenely querulous 
With pity's tones, and in the ear of wo 
Spake music. Now forgetful at thy feet 
His tired head presses on its last long rest, 
Still tenant of the tomb ; — and on the cheek, 
Once warm with animation's lambent flush, 
Sits the pale image of unmark'd decay. 
Yet mourn not. He had chosen the better 

part : 
And these sad garments of mortality 
Put off, we trust, that to a happier land 
He went a light and gladsome passenger. 
Sigh'st thou for honours, reader ? Call to 

mind 
That glory's voice is impotent to pierce 
The silence of the tomb ! but virtue blooms 
Even on the wreck of life, and mounts the 

skies ! 
So gird thy loins with lowliness, and walk 
With Cowper on the pilgrimage of Christ. 



This inscription is faulty from its length, 
but if a painter cannot get the requisite effect 
at one stroke, he must do it by many. The 
laconic style of epitaphs is the most difficult 
to be managed of any, inasmuch as most is 
expected from it. A sentence standing alone 
on a tomb, or a monument, is expected to 
contain something particularly striking : and 
when this expectation is disappointed, the 
reader feels like a man who, having been 
promised an excellent joke, is treated with a 
stale conceit, or a vapid pun. The best speci- 
men of this kind, which I am acquainted with, 
is that on a French general : 



" Siste, Viator; Heroem calcas !" 
Stop t traveller ; thou treadest on a hero / 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS 



(No. IX.) 



Scires & sanguine natos. 



Ovid. 



It is common for busy and active men to 
behold the occupations of the retired and 
contemplative person with contempt. They 
consider his speculations as idle and unpro- 
ductive ; as they participate in none of his 
feelings, they are strangers to his motives, his 
views, and his delights; they behold him 
elaborately employed on what they conceive 
forwards none of the interests of life, con- 
tributes to none of its gratifications, removes 
none of its inconveniences : they conclude, 
therefore, that he is led away by the delusions 
of futile philosophy, that he labours for no 
good, and lives to no end. Of the various 
frames of mind which they observe in him, no 
one seems to predominate more, and none 
appears to them more absurd, than sadness, 
which seems, in some degree, to pervade all 
his views, and shed a solemn tinge over all 
his thoughts. Sadness, arising from no per- 
sonal grief, and connected with no individual 
concern, they regard as moonstruck melan- 
choly, the effect of a mind overcast with 
constitutional gloom, and diseased with habits 
of vain and fanciful speculation. — " We can 
share with the sorrows of the unfortunate," say 
they, " but this monastic spleen merits only 
our derision : it tends to no beneficial purpose, 
it benefits neither its possessor nor society." 
Those who have thought a little more on this 
subject than the gay and busy crowd, will 
draw conclusions of a different nature. That 
there is a sadness, springing from the noblest 
and purest sources, a sadness friendly to the 
human heart, and, by direct consequence, 
to human nature in general, is a truth which 
a little illustration will render tolerably clear, 
and which, when understood in its full force, 
may probably convert contempt and ridicule 
into respect. 



I set out, then, with the proposition, that 
the man who thinks deeply, especially if his 
reading be extensive, will, unless his heart be 
very cold and very light, become habituated 
to a pensive, or, with more propriety, a mourn- 
ful cast of thought. This will arise from two 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



83 



more particular sources— from the view of hu- 
man nature in general, as demonstrated by 
the experience both of past and present times, 
and from the contemplation of individual in- 
stances of human depravity and of human suf- 
fering. The first of these is, indeed, the last 
in the order of time, for his general views ot 
humanity are in a manner consequential, or 
resulting from the special ; but I have invert- 
ed that order for the sake of perspicuity. 

Of those who have occasionally thought on 
these subjects, I may, with perfect assurance 
of their reply, inquire what have been their 
sensations when they have, for a moment, at- 
tained a more enlarged and capacious notion 
of the state of man in all its bearings and de- 
pendencies. They have found, and the pro- 
foundest philosophers have done no more, that 
they are enveloped in mystery, and that the 
mystery of man's situation is not without 
alarming and fearful circumstances. They 
have discovered that all they know of them- 
selves is that they live, but that from whence 
they came, or whither they are going, is by 
Nature altogether hidden ; that impenetrable 
gloom surrounds them on every side, and that 
they even hold their morrow on the credit of 
to-day, when it is, in fact, buried in the vague 
and indistinct gulf of the ages to come ! — 
These are reflections deeply interesting, and 
lead to others so awful, that many gladly shut 
their eyes on the giddy and unfathomable 
depths which seem to stretch before them. 
The meditative man, however, endeavours to 
pursue them to the farthest stretch of the rea- 
soning powers, and to enlarge his conceptions 
of the mysteries of his own existence ; and the 
more he learns, and the deeper he penetrates, 
the more cause does he find for being serious, 
and the more inducements to be continually 
thoughtful. 

If, again, we turn from the condition of 
mortal existence, considered in the abstract, 
to the qualities and characters of man, and his 
condition in a state of society, we see things 
perhaps equally strange and infinitely more 
affecting. —In the economy of creation, we per- 
ceive nothing inconsistent with the power of 
an all- wise and all-merciful God. A perfect 
harmony runs through all the parts of the uni- 
verse. Plato's syrens sing not only from the 
planetary octave, but through all the minutest 
divisions of the stupendous whole ; order, 
beauty, and perfection, the traces of the great 
Architect, glow through every particle of his 
work. At man, however, we stop : there is 
one exception. The harmony of order ceases, 
and vice and misery disturb the beautiful con- 



sistency of creation, and bring us first ac- 
quainted with positive evil. We behold men 
carried irresistibly away by corrupt principles 
and vicious inclinations, indulging in propen- 
sities, destructive as well to themselves as to 
those around them; the stronger oppressing 
the weaker, and the bad persecuting the good : 
we see the depraved in prosperity, the virtu- 
ous in adversity, the guilty unpunished, the 
deserving overwhelmed with unprovoked mis- 
fortunes. From hence we are tempted to 
think, that He, whose arm holds the planets 
in their course, and directs the comets along 
their eccentric orbits, ceases to exercise his 
providence over the affairs of mankind, and 
leaves them to be governed and directed by 
the impulses of a corrupt heart, or the blind 
workings of chance alone. Yet this is incon- 
sistent both with the wisdom and the goodness 
of the Deity. If God permit evil, he causes 
it : the difference is casuistical. We are led, 
therefore, to conclude, that it was not always 
thus : that man was created in a far different 
and far happier condition ; but that, by some 
means or other, he has forfeited the protection 
of his Maker. Here then is a mystery. The 
ancients, led by reasonings alone, perceived it 
with amazement, but did not solve the prob- 
lem. They attempted some explanation of it 
by the lame fiction of a golden age and its 
cession, where, by a circular mode of reason- 
ing, they attribute the introduction of vice to 
their gods having deserted the earth, and the 
desertion of the gods to the introduction of 
vice.* This, however, was the logic of the 
poets ; the philosophers disregarded the table, 
but did not dispute the fact it was intended to 
account for. They often hint at human degener- 
acy, and some unknown curse hanging over our 
being, and even coming into the world along 
with us. Pliny, in the preface to his seventh 
book, has this remarkable passage : " The 
animal about to rule over the rest of created 
animals lies weeping, bound hand and foot, 
making his first entrance upon life with sharp 
pangs, and this, for no other crime than that 
he is born man." — Cicero, in a passage, for the 

Atvx6i<riv <p<x.%it<rffi xct^w^ocf^ivu x%oa xaXov, 
A3-o4k»76jv [/.tra, Qvkov itov, jrgeX/swr ce,vB-^aj;rov( 
Aidc>j; zott J$t[jLifft$' to. "hi Ae<"4>£T#; kXyiu. Xvygu. 

Hesiod. Opera et Dies. Lib. 1. 195. 

Victa jacet Pietas : et Virgo cade madentes, 
Ultima ccBlestQm terras Astraea reliquit. 

Ovid. Metamor. L. 1. Fab. 4. 

Paulatim deinde ad Superos A strata recessit, 
Hac comite atque duee pariter f'ugere sorores. 

Juvenal. Sat. vi 1 10 



g4) MELANCHOLY 

preservation of which we are indebted to St. 
Augustine, gives a yet stronger idea of an ex- 
isting degeneracy in human nature : — " Man," 
says he, " comes into existence, not as from 
the hands of a mother, but of a step-dame 
nature, with a body feeble, naked, and fragile, 
and a mind exposed to anxiety and care, ab- 
; ect in fear, unmeet for labour, prone to licen- 
tiousness, in which, however, there still dwell 
some sparks of the divine mind, though ob- 
scured, and, as it were, in ruins." And, in 
another place, he intimates it as a current 
opinion, that man comes into the world as into 
a state of punishment expiatory of crimes com- 
mitted in some previous stage of existence, of 
which we now retain no recollection. 



HOURS. 



From these proofs, and from daily observa- 
tion and experience, there is every ground for 
concluding that man is in a state of misery 
and depravity quite inconsistent with the hap- 
piness for which, by a benevolent God, he 
must have been created. We see glaring 
marks of this in our own times. Prejudice 
alone blinds us to the absurdity and the hor- 
ror of those systematic murders which go by 
the name of wars, where man falls on man, 
brother slaughters brother, where death, in 
every variety of horror, preys " on the finely- 
fibred human frame," and where the cry of the 
widow and the orphan rise up to heaven long 
after the thunder of the fight and the clang of 
arms have ceased, and the bones of sons, 
brothers, and husbands slain are grown white 
on the field. Customs like these vouch, with 
most miraculous organs, for the depravity of 
the human heart, and these are not the most 
mournful of those considerations which pre- 
sent themselves to the mind of the thinking 
man. 

Private life is equally fertile in calamitous 
perversion of reason, and extreme accumula- 
tion of misery. On the one hand, we see a 
large proportion of men sedulously employed 
in the eduction of their own ruin, pursuing 
vice in all its varieties, and sacrificing the 
peace and happiness of the innocent and unof- 
fending to their own brutal gratifications ; 
and, on the other, pain, misfortune, and mis- 
ery, overwhelming alike the good and the 
bad, the provident and the improvident. But 
too general a view would distract our atten- 
tion : let the reader pardon me if I suddenly 
draw him away from the survey of the crowds 
of life to a few detached scenes. We will 
select a single picture at random. The char- 
acter is common. 

Behold that beautiful female, who is rally- 
ing a well-dressed young man with so much 



gayety and humour. Did you ever see so 
lovely a countenance ? There is an expression 
of vivacity in her fine dark eye which quite 
captivates one ; and her smile, were it a little 
less bold, would be bewitching. How gay 
and careless she seems ! One would suppose 
she had a very light and happy heart. Alas ! 
how appearances deceive ! This gayety is all 
feigned. It is her business to please, and 
beneath a fair and painted outside she con- 
ceals an unquiet and forlorn breast. When 
she was yet very young, an engaging but 
dissolute young man took advantage of her 
simplicity, and of the affection with which he 
had inspired her, to betray her virtue. At 
first her infamy cost her many tears ; but habit 
wore away this remorse, leaving only a kind 
of indistinct regret, and, as she fondly loved 
her betrayer, she experienced, at times, a 
mingled pleasure even in this abandoned 
situation. But this was soon over. Her lover, 
on pretence of a journey into the country, left 
her for ever. She soon afterwards heard of 
his marriage, with an agony of grief w r hic.h 
few can adequately conceive, and none de- 
scribe. The calls of want, however, soon 
subdued the more distracting ebullitions of 
anguish. She had no choice left ; all the gates 
of virtue were shut upon her, and though she 
really abhorred the course, she was obliged 
to betake herself to vice for support. Her 
next keeper possessed her person without her 
heart. She has since passed through several 
hands, and has found, by bitter experience, 
that the vicious, on whose generosity she is 
thrown, are devoid of all feeling but that of 
self-gratification, and that even the wages of 
prostitution are reluctantly and grudgingly 
paid. She now looks on all men as sharpers. 
She smiles but to entangle and destroy, and 
while she simulates fondness, is intent only 
on the extorting of that, at best poor pittance, 
which her necessities loudly demand. Thought- 
less as she may seem, she is not without an 
idea of her forlorn and wretched situation, 
and she looks only to sudden death as her 
refuge, against that time when her charms 
shall cease to allure the eye of incontinence, 
when even the lowest haunts of infamy shall 
be shut against her, and without a friend or a 
hope, she must sink under the pressure of 
want and disease. 

But we will now shift the scene a little, and 
select another object. Behold yon poor 
weary wretch, who, with a child wrapt in her 
arms, with difficulty drags along the road. 
The man, with a knapsack, who is walking be- 
fore her, is her husband, and is marching to 
join his regiment. He has been spending, at 
a dram-shop in the town they have just left, the 



MELANCHOLY 

supply which the pale and weak appearance 
of his wife proclaims was necessary for her 
sustenance. He is now half drunk, and is 
venting the artificial spirits which intoxication 
excites in the abuse of his weary help-mate 
behind him. She seems to listen to his re- 
proaches in patient silence. Her face will tell 
you more than many words, as, with a wan 
and meaning look, she surveys the little wretch 
who is asleep on her arms. The turbulent 
brutality of the man excites no attention : she 
is pondering on the future chance of life, and 
the probable lot of her heedless little one. 



One other picture, and I have done. The 
man pacing with a slow step and languid as- 
pect over yon prison court, was once a fine 
dashing fellow, the admiration of the ladies, 
and the envy of the men. He is the only re- 
presentative of a once respectable family, and 
is brought to this situation by unlimited in- 
dulgence at that time when the check is most 
.necessary. He began to figure in genteel life 
at an early age. His misjudging mother, to 
whose sole care he was left, thinking no al- 
liance too good for her darling, cheerfully 
supplied his extravagance, under the idea that 
it would not last long,"and that it would ena- 
ble him to shine in those circles where she 
wished him to rise. But he soon found that 
habits of prodigality, once well gained, are 
never eradicated. His fortune, though gen- 
teel, was not adequate to such habits of ex- 
pense. His unhappy parent lived to see him 
make a degrading alliance, and come in dan- 
ger of a gaol, and then died of a broken heart. 
His affairs soon wound themselves up. His 
debts were enormous, and he had nothing to 
pay them with. He has now been in that 
prison many years, and since he is excluded 
from the benefit of an insolvency act, he has 
made up his mind to the idea of ending his 
days there. His wife, whose beauty had de- 
coyed him, since she found he could not sup- 
port her, deserted him for those who could, 
leaving him without friend or companion, to 
pace, with measured steps, over the court of 
a country gaol, and endeavour to beguile 
the lassitude of .imprisonment, by thinking 
on the days that are gone, or counting the 
squares in his grated window in every possible 
direction, backwards, forwards, and across, 
till he sighs to find the sum always the same, 
and that the more anxiously we strive to be- 
guile the moments in their course, the more 
sluggishly they travel. 



HOURS. $5 

man in general, and what must be the pre- 
vailing frame of mind of him who meditates 
much on these subjects, and who, unbracing 
the whole tissue of causes and effects, sees 
Misery invariably the offspring of Vice, and 
Vice existing in hostility to the intentions and 
wishes of God ? Let the meditative man turn 
where he will, he finds traces of the depraved 
state of Nature, and her consequent misery. 
History presents him with little but murder, 
treachery, and crimes of every description. 
Biography only strengthens the view, by con- 
centrating it: The philosophers remind him of 
the existence of evil, by their lessons how to 
avoid or endure it ; and the very poets them- 
selves afford him pleasure, not unconnected 
with regret, as, either by contrast, exempli- 
fication, or deduction, they bring the world 
and its circumstances before his eyes. 

That such a one, then, is prone to sadness, 
who will wonder? If such meditations are 
beneficial, who will blame them ? The discovery 
of evil naturally leads us to contribute our 
mite towards the alleviation of the wretched- 
ness it introduces. While we lament vice, 
we learn to shun it ourselves and to endeav- 
our, if possible, to arrest its progress in those 
around us ; and in the course of these high 
and lofty speculations, we are insensibly led 
to think humbly of ourselves, and to lift up 
our thoughts to Him who is alone the foun- 
tain of all perfection and the source of all 
good. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



(No. X.) 



La rime est une esclave, et ne doit qu'obeir. 

Boileau L' Art l'oetique. 



Experiments in versification have not often 
been successful. Sir Philip Sidney, with all 
his genius, great as it undoubtedly was, could 
not impart grace to his hexameters, or fluency 
to his sapphics. Spenser's stanza was new v 
but his verse was familiar to the ear; and 
though his rhymes were frequent even to 
satiety, he seems to have avoided the awkward- 
ness of novelty, and the difficulty of unprac- 
If these are accurate pictures of some of the tised metres. Donne had not music enough 
varieties of human suffering, and if such pic- to render his broken rhyming couplets suf- 
tures are common even to triteness, what con- ferable, and neither his wit nor his pointed 
elusions must we draw as to the condition of I satire were sufficient to rescue him from that 



86 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 



neglect which his uncouth and rugged versifi- 
cation speedily superinduced. 

In our times, Mr. Southey has given grace 
and melody to some of the Latin and Greek 
measures, and Mr. Bowles has written rhym- 
ing heroics, wherein the sense is transmitted 
from couplet to couplet, and the pauses are 
varied with all the freedom of blank verse, 
without exciting any sensation of ruggedness, 
or offending the nicest ear. But these are 
minor efforts : the former of these exquisite 
poets has taken a yet wider range, and in his 
" Thalaba the Destroyer," has spurned at all 
the received laws of metre, and framed a 
fabric of verse altogether his own. 

An innovation, so bold as that of Mr. 
Southey, was sure to meet with disapprobation 
and ridicule. The world naturally looks with 
suspicion on systems which contradict estab- 
lished principles, and refuse to quadrate 
with habits which, as they have been used to, 
men are apt to think cannot be improved upon. 
The opposition which has been made to the 
metre of Thalaba, is, therefore, not so much 
to be imputed to its want of harmony, as to 
the operation of existing prejudices; and it is 
fair to conclude, that, as these prejudices are 
softened by usage, and the strangeness of 
novelty wears off, the peculiar features of this 
lyrical frame of verse will be more candidly 
appreciated, and its merits more unreservedly 
acknowledged. 

Whoever is conversant with the writings of 
this author, will have observed and admired 
that greatness of mind, and comprehension of 
intellect, by which he is enabled, on all occa- 
sions, to throw off the shackles of habit and 
prepossession. Southey never treads in the 
beaten track : his thoughts, while they are 
those of nature, carry that cast of originality 
which is the stamp and testimony of genius. 
He views things through a peculiar phasis, 
and while he has the feelings of a man, they 
are those of a man almost abstracted from 
mortality, and reflecting on, and painting the 
scenes of life, as if he were a mere spectator, 
uninfluenced by his own connection with the 
objects he surveys. To this faculty of bold dis- 
crimination 1 attribute many of Mr. Sou they 7 s 
peculiarities as a poet. He never seems to in- 
quire how other men would treat a subject, or 
what may happen to be the usage of the times ; 
but filled with that strong sense of fitness, 
which is the result of bold and unshackled 
thought, he fearlessly pursues that course 
which his own sense of propriety points 
out. 



It is very evident to me, and I should con- 
ceive to all who consider the subjectattentive- 
ly, that the structure of the verse, which Mr. 
Southey has promulgated in his Thalaba, was 
neither adopted rashly, nor from any" vain 
emulation of originality. As the poet himself 
happily observes, " It is the arabesque orna- 
ment of an Arabian tale." No one would wish 
to see the Joan of Arc in such a garb ; but 
the wild freedom of the versification of Thala- 
ba accords well with the romantic wildness of 
the story ; and I do not hesitate to say, that, 
had any other known measure been adopted, 
the poem would have been deprived of half its 
beauty, and all its propriety. In blank verse 
it would have been absurd ; in rhyme, insipid. 
The lyrical manner is admirably adapted to 
the sudden transitions and rapid connections 
of an Arabian tale, while its variety precludes 
taedium, and its full, because unshackled, ca- 
dence satisfies the ear with legitimate har- 
mony. At first, indeed, the verse may appear 
uncouth, because it is new to the ear ; but I 
defy any man who has any feeling of melody, 
to peruse the whole poem, without paying tri- 
bute to the sweetness of its flow, and the grace- 
fulness of its modulations. 

In judging of this extraordinary poem, we 
should consider it as a genuine lyric produc- 
tion, — we should conceive it as recited to the 
harp, in times when such relations carried no- 
thing incredible with them. Carrying this 
idea along with us, the admirable art of the 
poet will strike us with tenfold conviction ; 
the abrupt sublimity of his transitions, the 
sublime simplicity of his manner, and the del- 
icate touches by which he connects the various 
parts of his narrative, will then be more strong- 
ly observable, and we shall, in particular, re- 
mark the uncommon felicity with which he 
has adapted his versification ; and, in the 
midst of the wildest irregularity, left nothing 
to shock the ear, or offend the judgment. 

W. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. XI.) 

THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE. 

Few histories would be more worthy of at- 
tention than that of the progress of knowledge, 
from its first dawn to the time of its meridian 
splendoa-, among the ancient Greeks. Unfor- 
tunately, however, the precautions which, in 



MELANCHOLY 



this early period, were almost generally taken 
to confine all knowledge to a particular branch 
of men, and when the Greeks began to contend 
for the palm among the learned nations, their 
backwardness to acknowledge the sources 
from whence they derived the first principles of 
their philosophy, have served to wrap this in- 
teresting subject in almost impenetrable ob- 
scurity. Few vestiges, except the Egyptian 
hieroglyphics, now remain of the learning of 
the more ancient world. Of the two millions 
of verses said to have been written by the 
Chaldean Zoroaster, * we have no relics ; and 
the oracles which go under his name are pretty 
generally acknowledged to be spurious. 

The Greeks unquestionably derived their 
philosophy from the Egyptians and Chaldeans. 
Both Pythagoras and Plato had visited those 
countries for the advantage of learning; and 
if we may credit the received accounts of the 
former of these illustrious sages, he was regu- 
larly initiated in the schools of Egypt, during 
the period of twenty-two years that he resided 
in that country, and became the envy and ad- 
miration of the Egyptians themselves. Of the 
Pythagorean doctrines we have some accounts 
remaining ; and nothing is wanting to render 
the systems of Platonism complete and intel- 
ligible. In the dogmas of these philosophers, 
therefore, we may be able to trace the learn- 
ing of these primitive nations, though our con- 
clusions must be cautiously drawn, and much 
must be allowed to the active intelligence of 
two Greeks. Ovid's short summary of the 
philosophy of Pythagoras deserves attention. 

Isque, licet coeli regione remotos, 

Mente Deos adiit : et, quae naturartiegabat 
Visibus humanis, oculis ea pectoris hausit. 
Cumque animo, et vigili perspexerat omnia 

cura ; 
In medium discenda dabat : coetumque si- 

lentum, 
Dictaque mirantum, magni primordia mundi 
Et rerum causas et quid natura docebat, 
Quid Deus : unde nives : quae fulminis esset 

origo 
Jupiter, an venti, discussa ;nube, tonarent, 
Quid quateret terras: qua sidera lege 

mearent, 
Et quodcumque latet. 

If we are to credit this account, and it is 
• corroborated by many other testimonies, Py- 
thagoras searched deeply into natural causes. 
Some have imagined, and strongly asserted, 
that his central fire was figurative of the sun, 

* Pliny. 



HOURS. 87 

and, therefore, that he had an idea of its real 
situation ; but this opinion, so generally adop- 
ted, may be combated with some degree of 
reason. I should be inclined to think Pytha- 
goras gained his idea of. the great central, 
vivifying, and creative fire from the Chaldeans, 
and that, therefore, it was the representa- 
tive not of the sun but of the Deity. Zoroas- 
ter taught that there was one God, Eternal, 
the Father of the Universe : he assimilat- 
ed the Deity to light, and applied to him 
the names of Light, Beams, and Splen- 
dor. The Magi, corrupting his representa- 
tion of the Supreme Being, and, taking 
literally what was meant, as an allegory or 
symbol, supposed that God was this central 
fire, the source of heat, light, and life, residing 
in the centre of the universe ; and from hence 
they introduced among the Chaldeans the 
worship of fire. That Pythagoras was tainted 
with this superstition is well known. On the 
testimony of Plutarch, his disciples held, that 
in the midst of the world is fire, or in the midst 
of the four elements is the fiery globe of Unity, 
or Monad — the procreative, nutritive, and ex- 
citive power. The sacred fire of Vesta, among 
the Greeks and Latins, was a remain of this 
doctrine. 



As the limits of this paper will not allow 
me to take in all the branches of this subject, I 
shall confine my attention to the opinions held 
by these early nations, of the nature of the God- 
head. 

Amidst the corruptions introduced by the 
Magi, we may discern, with tolerable cer- 
tainty, that Zoroaster taught the worship of 
the one true God; and Thales, Pythagoras, 
and Plato, who had all been instituted in the 
mysteries of the Chaldeans, taught the same 
doctrine. These philosophers likewise asserted 
the omnipotence and eternity of God ; and 
that he was the creator of all things, and the 
governor of the universe. Plato decisively 
supported the doctrines of future rewards and 
punishments ; and Pythagoras, struck with 
the idea of the omnipresence of the Deity, 
defined him as animus per universas mundi 
partes omnemque naturam commeans atque diffu- 
sits, ex quo omnia quce nascuntur animalia vitam 
capiunt.* — An intelligence moving upon, and 
diffused over all the parts of the universe and 
all nature, from which all animals derive their 
existence. As for the swarm of gods wor- 

* Lanctantius Div. Inst. lib. cap. 5. etiam, Minuc'us 
Felix, " Pythagorae Deus est animus per universam rerum 
naturam commeans atque intentus ex quo etiam anima 
Hum omnium vita capiatur." 



88 
shipped both in Egypt and Greece, it is evi- 
dent they were only esteemed as inferior 
deities. In the time of St. Paul, there was a 
temple at Athens inscribed to the unknown 
God : and Hesiod makes them younger than 
the earth and heaven. 



Ol t ex ran lyivevro Stot Surr^is iolw. 

Theog. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

when accident called any of the peasants from 
their beds at unseasonable hours. Be this as 
it may, no miracles were imputed to him ; the 
sick rarely came to petition for the benefit of 
his prayers, and, though some both loved him 
and had good reason for loving him, yet mauj 
undervalued him for the want of that very 
austerity which the old man seemed most 
desirous to avoid. 



If Pythagoras, and the other philosophers 
who succeeded him, paid honour to these 
gods, they either did it through fear of en- 
countering ancient prejudices, or they recon- 
ciled it by recurring to the Daemonology of 
their masters, the Chaldeans, who maintained 
the agency of good and bad Daemons, who pre- 
sided over different things, and were dis- 
tinguished into the powers of light and dark- 
ness, heat and cold. It is remarkable, too, 
that amongst all these people, whether Egyp- 
tians or Chaldeans, Greeks or Romans, as 
well as every other nation under the sun, 
sacrifices were made to the gods, in order to 
render them propitious to their wishes, or to 
expiate their offences — a fact which proves, 
that the conviction of the interference of the 
Deity in human affairs is universal ; and, 
what is much more important, that this custom 
is primitive, and derived from the first inhabi- 
tants of the world. 



MELANCHOLY HOURS. 

(No. XII.) 

While the seat of empire was yet at Byzan- 
tium, and that city was the centre, not only 
of dominion, but of learning and politeness, a 
certain hermit had fixed his residence in a cell, 
on the banks of the Athyras, at the distance of 
about ten miles from the capital. The spot 
was retired, although so near the great city, 
and was protected, as well by woods and pre- 
cipices as by the awful reverence with which, 
at that time, all ranks beheld the character of 
a recluse. Indeed, the poor old man, who 
tenanted the little hollow, at the summit of a 
crag, beneath which the Athyras rolls its im- 
petuous torrent, was not famed for the severity 
of his penances, or the strictness of his mortifi- 
cations. That he was either studious, or pro- 
tracted his devotions to a late hour, was evi- 
dent, for his lamp was often seen to stream 
through the trees which shaded his dwelling, 



It was evening, and the long shadows of the 
Thracian mountains were extending still far- 
ther and farther along the plains, when this 
old man was disturbed in his meditations by 
the approach of a stranger. " How far is it 
to Byzantium?" was the question put by the 
traveller. '* Not far to those who know the 
country," replied the hermit, " but a stranger 
would not easily find his way through the 
windings of these woods, and the intricacies 
of the plains beyond them. Do you see that 
blue mist which stretches along the bounding 
line of the horizon as far as the trees will 
permit the eye to trace it ? That is the Pro- 
pontis : and higher up on the left, the city of 
Constantinople rears its proud head above 
the waters. But 1 would dissuade thee, 
stranger, from pursuing thy journey farther 
to-night. Thou mayest rest in the village, 
which is half way down the hill ; or if thou 
wilt share my supper of roots, and put up 
with a bed of leaves, my cell is open to 
thee."—" I thank thee, father," replied the 
youth, " I am weary with my journey, 
and will accept thy proffered hospitality." 
They ascended the rock together. The her- 
mit's cell was the work of nature. It pene- 
trated far into the rock, and in the innermost 
recess wa6 a little chapel, furnished with a 
crucifix, and a human skull, the objects of the 
hermit's nightly and daily contemplation, for 
neither of them received his adoration. That 
corruption had not as yet crept into the Chris- 
tian church. The hermit now lighted up a 
fire of dry sticks, (for the nights are very 
piercing in the regions about the Hellespont 
and the Bosphorus,) and then proceeded to 
prepare their vegetable meal. While he was 
thus employed, his young guest surveyed, 
with surprise, the dwelling which he was to 
inhabit for the night. A cold rock-hole on 
the bleak summit of one of the Thracian hills, 
seemed to him a comfortless choice for a weak 
and solitary old man. The rude materials of 
his scanty furniture still more surprised him. 
A table fixed to the ground, a wooden bench, 
an earthen lamp, a number of rolls of papy- 
rus and vellum, and a heap of leaves in a 
corner, the hermit's bed, were all his stock. 
" Is it possible," at length he exclaimed, 
" that you can tenant this comfortless cave, 



with these scanty accommodations, through 
choice: Go with me, old man, to Constan- 
tinople, and receive from rne those con- 
veniences which befit your years." " And 
Avhat art thou going to do at Constantinople, 
ray young friend ?" said the hermit, " for thy 
dialect bespeaks thee a native of more southern 
regions. Am I mistaken, art thou not an 
Athenian V " I am an Athenian," replied 
the youth, " by birth, but I hope 1 am not an 
Athenian in vice. I have left my degenerate 
birth-place in quest of happiness. I have 
learned from my master, Speusippus, a 
genuine asserter of the much belied doctrines 
of Epicurus, that as a future state is a mere 
phantom and vagary of the brain, it is the 
only true wisdom to enjoy life while we have 
it. But I have learned from him also, that 
virtue alone is true enjoyment. I am resolved, 
therefore, to enjoy life, and that too with vir- 
tue, as my companion and guide. My travels 
are begun with the design of discovering 
where I can best unite both objects: enjoy- 
ment the most exquisite, with virtue the most 
perfect. You perhaps may have reached the 
latter, my good father ; the former you have 
certainly missed. To-morrow I shall continue 
my search. At Constantinople, I shall laugh 
and sing with the gay, meditate with the 
sober, drink deeply of every unpolluted 
pleasure, and taste all the fountains of wisdom 
and philosophy. I have heard much of the 
accomplishments of the women of Byzantium. 
With us, females are mere household slaves ; 
here, I am told, they have minds. I almost 
promise myself that I shall marry and settle at 
Constantinople, where the loves and graces 
seem alone to reside, and where even the 
women have minds. My good father, how the 
wind roars about this aerial nest of yours, and 
here you sit during the long cold nights, all 
alone, cold and cheerless, when Constantinople 
is just at your feet, with all its joys, its com- 
forts, and its elegancies. I perceive that the 
philosophers of our sect, who succeeded 
Epicurus, were right, when they taught that 
there might be virtue without enjoyment, and 
that virtue without enjoyment is not worth the 
having." The face of the youth kindled with 
animation as he spake these words, and he 
visibly enjoyed the consciousness of superior 
intelligence. The old man sighed and was 
silent. As they ate their frugal supper, both 
parties seemed involved in deep thought. The 
young traveller was dreaming of the Byzan- 
tine women : his host seemed occupied with 
far different meditations. " So you are travel- 
ling to Constantinople in search of happiness ?" 
at length exclaimed the hermit; "I too have 
been a suitor of that divinity, and it may be 



MELANCHOLY HOURS', 89 

of use to you to hear how I have fared. The 
history of my life will serve to fill up the in- 
terval before we retire to rest, and my ex- 
perience may not prove altogether useless to 
one who is about to go the same journey which 
I have finished. 



" These scanty hairs of mine were not 
always gray, nor these limbs decrepid : I was 
once, like thee, young, fresh, and vigorous, 
full of delightful dreams and gay anticipa* 
tions. Life seemed a garden of sweets, a 
path of roses ; and I thought I had but to 
choose in what way I would be happy. I will 
pass over the incidents of my boyhood, and 
come to my maturer years. 1 had scarcely 
seen twenty summers, when I formed one of 
those extravagant and ardent attachments, of 
which youth is so susceptible. It happened, 
that, at that time, I bore arms under the em- 
peror Theodosius, in his expedition against 
the Goths, who had over-run a part of Thrace. 
In our return from a successful campaign, we 
staid some time in the Greek cities, which 
border on the Euxine. In one of these cities 
I became acquainted with a female, whose 
form was not more elegant than her mind was 
cultivated, and her heart untainted. I had 
done her family some trivial services, and her 
gratitude spoke too warmly to my intoxicated 
brain to leave any doubt on my mind that she 
loved me. The idea was too exquisitely 
pleasing to be soon dismissed. I sought every 
occasion of being with her. Her mild, per- 
suasive voice seemed like the music of heaven 
to my ears, after the toils and roughness of a 
soldier's life. I had a friend, too, whose con- 
verse, next to that of the dear object of my 
secret love, was most dear to me. He formed 
the third in all our meetings, and beyond the 
enjoyment of the society of these two, I had 
not a wish. I had never yet spoken explicitly 
to my female friend, but I fondly hoped we 
understood each other. Why should 1 dwell 
on the subject ? I was mistaken. My friend 
threw himself on my mercy. I found that he, 
not I, was the object of her affections. Young 
man, you may conceive, but I cannot describe 
what I felt, as I joined their hands. The 
stroke was severe, and, for a time, unfitted me 
for the duties of my station. I suffered the 
army to leave the place without accompanying 
it : and thus lost the rewards of my past ser- 
vices, and forfeited the favour of my sovereign. 
This was another source of anxiety and regret 
to me, as my mind recovered its wonted tone. 
But the mind of youth, however deeply it may 
feel for a while, eventually rises up from de- 
jection, and regains its wonted elasticity. 
That rigour by which the spirit recovers itself 
M 



90 MELANCHOLY 

from the depths of useless regret, and enters 
upon new prospects with its accustomed ar- 
dour, is only subdued by time. I now applied 
myself to the study of philosophy, under a 
Greek master, and all my ambition was di- 
rected towards letters. But ambition is not 
quite enough to fill a young man's heart. I 
still felt a void there, and sighed as I reflected 
on the happiness of my friend. At the time 
when I visited the object of my first love, a 
young Christian woman, her frequent com- 
panion, had sometimes taken my attention. 
She was an Ionian by birth, and had all the 
softness and pensive intelligence which her 
countrywomen are said to possess when un- 
viliated by the corruptions so prevalent in that 
delightful region. You are no stranger to the 
contempt with which the Greeks then treated, 
and do. still, in some places, treat the Chris- 
tians. This young woman bore that contempt 
with a calmness which surprised me. There 
were then but few converts to that religion in 
those parts, and its profession was therefore 
more exposed to ridicule and persecution from 
its strangeness. Notwithstanding her reli- 
gion, I thought I could love this interesting 
and amiable female, and, in spite of inv former 
mistake, I had the vanity to imagine I Was not 
indifferent to her. As our intimacy increased, 
1 learned, to my astonishment, that she re- 
garded me as one involved in ignorance and 
error: and that, although she felt an affection 



HOURS. 

for me, yet she would never become my wife, 
while I remaiced devoted to the religion of my 
ancestors. Piqued at this discovery, I received 
the books, which she now for the first time 
put into my hands, with pity and contempt. I 
expected to find them nothing but the reposi- 
tories of a miserable and deluded superstition, 
more presuming than the mystical leaves of the 
Sibyls, or the obscure triads of Zoroaster. 
How was I mistaken ! There was much which 
I could not at all comprehend ; but, in the 
midst of this darkness, the effect of my ignor- 
ance, I discerned a system of morality, so ex- 
alted, so exquisitely pure, and so far removed 
from all I would have conceived of the most 
perfect virtue, that all the philosophy of the 
Grecian world seemed worse than dross in the 
comparison. My former learning had only 
served to teach me that something was want- 
ing to complete the systems of philosophers. 
Here that invisible link was supplied, and I 
could even then observe a harmony and con- 
sistency in the whole which carried irresistible 
conviction to my mind. I will not enlarge on 
this subject. Christianity is not a mere set of 
opinions to be embraced by the understanding. 
It is the work of the heart as well as the 
head. Let it suffice to say, that, in time, I 
became a Christian, and the husband of 
Srpphira. 



REFLECTIONS. 



ON PRAYER. 

If there be any duty which our Lord Jesus 
Christ seems to have considered as more in- 
dispensably necessary towards the formation 
of a true Christian, it is that of prayer. He 
has taken every opportunity of impressing on 
our minds the absolute need in which we 
stand of the divine assistance, both to persist in 
the paths of righteousness, and to fly from the 
allurements of a fascinating, but dangerous 
life : and he has directed us to the only means 
of obtaining that assistance in constant and 
habitual appeals to the throne of Grace. 
Prayer is certainly the foundation-stone of the 
superstructure of a religious life : for a man can 
neither arrive at true piety, nor persevere in 
its ways when attained, unless, with sincere 



and continued fervency, and with the most un- 
affected anxiety, he implore Almighty God to 
grant him his perpetual grace, to guard 
and restrain him from all those derelictions of 
heart, to which we are, by nature, but too 
prone. I should think it an insult to the un- 
derstanding of a Christian to dwell on the ne- 
cessity of prayer, and, before we can harangue 
an infidel on its efficacy, we must convince 
him, not only that the Being to whom we ad- 
dress ourselves really exists, but that he con- 
descends to hear and to answer our humble 
supplications. As these objects are foreign to 
my present purpose, I shall take my leave of 
the necessity of prayer, as acknowledged by 
all to whom this paper is addressed, and shall 
be content to expatiate on the strong induce- 
ments which we have to lift up our souls to 



REFLECTIONS. 



91 



our Maker in the language of supplication and 
of praise ; to depict the happiness which re- 
sults to the man of true piety from the exercise 
of this duty; and, lastly, to warn mankind, 
lest their fervency should carry them into the 
extreme of fanaticism, and their prayers, in- 
stead of being silent and unassuming expres- 
sions of gratitude to their Maker, and humble 
entreaties for his favouring grace, should de- 
generate into clamorous vociferations and inso- 
lent gesticulations, utterly repugnant to the 
true spirit of prayer, and to the language of a 
creature addressing his Creator. 

There is such an exalted delight to a regener- 
ate being in the act of prayer, and he antici- 
pates with so much pleasure amid the toils 
of business, and the crowds of the world, the 
moment when he shall be able to pour out his 
soul without interruption into the bosom of his 
Maker, that I am persuaded, that the degree 
of desire or repugnance which a man feels to 
the performance of this amiable duty, is an in- 
fallible criterion of his acceptance with God. 
Let the unhappy child of dissipation— let the 
impure voluptuary boast of his short hours 
of exquisite enjoyment ; even in the degree of 
bliss they are infinitely inferior to the delight 
of which the righteous man participates in 
his private devotions ; while in their opposite 
consequences they lead to a no less wide ex- 
treme than heaven and hell, a state of positive 
happiness, and a state of positive misery. If 
there were no other inducement to prayer, 
than the very gratification it imparts to the 
soul, it would deserve to be regarded as the 
most important object of a Christian ; for no 
where else could he purchase so much calm- 
ness, so much resignation, and so much of that 
peace and repose of spirit, in which consists 
the chief happiness of this otherwise dark and 
stormy being. But to prayer, besides the 
inducement of momentary gratification, the 
very self-love implanted in our bosoms would 
lead us to resort, as the chief good, for our 
Lord hath said, " Ask, and it shall be given 
to thee ; knock, and it shall be opened ;" and 
not a supplication made in the true spirit of 
faith and humility, but shall be answered ; not 
a request which is urged with unfeigned sub- 
mission and lowliness of spirit, but shall be 
granted, if it be consistent with our happi- 
ness, either temporal or eternal. Of this 
happiness, however, the Lord God is the only 
judge ; but this we do know, that whether 
our requests be granted, or whether they be 
refused all is working together for our ultimate 
benefit. 

When I say, that such of our requests and 



solicitEitions, as are urged in the true spirit 
of meekness, humility, and submission, will 
indubitably be answered, 1 would, wish to 
draw a line between supplications so urged, 
and those violent and vehement declamations 
which, under the name of prayers, are some- 
times heard to proceed from thd lips of men 
professing to worship God in the spirit of 
meekness and truth. Surely I need not im- 
press on any reasonable mind, how directly 
contrary these inflamed and bombastic har- 
angues are to every precept of Christianity, 
and every idea of the deference due from a 
poor worm, like man, to the omnipotent and 
all-great God. Can we hesitate a moment as 
to which is more acceptable in his sight — the 
diffident, the lowly, the retiring, and yet so- 
lemn and impressive form of worship of our 
excellent church ; and the wild and laboured 
exclamations, the authoritative and dictatory 
clamours of men, who, forgetting the immense 
distance at which they stand from the awful 
Being whom they address, boldly, and with 
unblushing front, speak to their God as to an 
equal, and almost dare to prescribe to his in. 
finite wisdom the steps it shall pursue ? How 
often has the silent, yet eloquent eye of misery, 
wrung from the reluctant hand of charity that 
relief which has been denied to the loud and 
importunate beggar? And is Heaven to be 
taken by storm? Are we to wrest the Al- 
mighty from his purposes by vociferation and 
importunity ? God forbid ! It is a fair and a 
reasonable, though a melancholy inference, 
that the Lord shuts his ears against prayers 
like these, and leaves the deluded supplicants 
to follow the impulse of their own head strong 
passions, without a guide, and destitute of 
every ray of his pure and holy light. 

Those mock apostles, who thus disgrace the 
worship of the true God by their extravagance, 
are very fond of appearing to imitate the con- 
duct of our Saviour, during his mortal pere- 
grination ; but how contrary were his habits 
to those of these deluded men! Did he teach 
his disciples to insult the ear of Heaven 
with noise and clamour? Were his precepts 
those of fanaticism and passion? Did he in- 
flame the minds of his hearers with vehement 
and declamatory harangues ? Did he pray 
with all this confidence — this arrogance — this 
assurance ? How different was his conduct ! 
He divested wisdom of all its pomp and par- 
ade, in order te suit it to the capacities of the 
meanest of its auditors. He spake to them in 
the lowly language of parable and similitude ; 
and when he prayed, did he instruct his hear- 
ers to attend to him with a loud chorus of 
Amens? Did he (participating as he did in tho 



92 



REFLECTIONS. 



Godhead,) did he assume the tone of suffici- 
ency, and the language of assurance? Far 
from it ! he prayed, and he instructed his dis- 
ciples to pray, in lowliness and meekness of 
spirit; he instructed them to approach the 
throne of Grace with fear and trembling, si- 
lently, and with the deepest awe and venera- 
tion ; and he evinced by his condemnation of 
the prayer of the self-sufficient Pharisee, op- 
posed to that of the diffident publican, the 
light in which those were considered in the 
eyes of the Lord, who, setting the terrors of 
his Godhead at defiance, and boldly building 
on their own worthiness, approached him with 
confidence and pride. * * * 



There is nothing so indispensably necessary 
towards the establishment of future earthly, as 
well as heavenly happiness, as early impres- 
sions of piety. For, as religion is the sole 
source of all human welfare and peace, so 
habits of religious reflection, in the spring of 
life, are the only means of arriving at a due 
sense of the importance of divine concerns in 
age, except by the bitter and hazardous roads 
of repentance and remorse. There is not a 
more awful spectacle in nature, than the death- 
bed of a lute repentance. The groans of agony 
which attend the separation of the soul from 
the body, heightened by the heart-piercing 
exclamation of mental distress ; the dreadful 
ebullitions of horror and remorse, intermingled 
with the half-fearful, but fervent deprecations 
of the divine wrath, and prayers for the divine 
mercy, joined to the pathetic imploring to the 
friends who stand weeping around the bed of 
the sinner to pray for him, and to take warn- 
ing from his awful end, contribute to render 
this scene such an impressive and terrible 
memento of the state of those who have ne- 
glected their souls, as must bring to a due 
sense of his duty the most hardened of in- 
fidels. 

It is to ensure you, my young friends, as far 
as precept can ensure you, from horrors like 
these in your last moments, that I write this 
little book, in the hopes that, through the bless- 
ing of the Divine Being, it may be useful in 
inducing you to reflect on the importance of 
early piety, and lead you into the cheerful 
performance of your duties to God, and to 
your own souls. In the pursuit of this plan, I 
shall, first, consider the bliss which results 
from a pious disposition, and the horrors of a 
wicked one. Secondly, the necessity of an 
early attention to the concerns of the soul to- 
wards the establishment of permanent relig- 



ion, and its consequent happiness ; and, third- 
ly, I shall point out and contrast the last mo- 
ments of those who have acted in conformity, 
or in contradiction to the rules here laid 
down. 

The contrast between the lives of the good 
and the wicked man affords such convincing 
arguments in support of the excellence of re- 
ligion., that, even those infidels who have dared 
to assert their disbelief of the doctrine of Re- 
velation, have confessed that in a political 
point of view, if in no other, it ought to be 
maintained. Compare the peaceful and collect- 
ed course of the virtuous and pious man, with 
the turbulent irregularity and violence of him 
who neglects his soul for the alluremeuts of vice, 
and judge for yourselves of the policy of the 
conduct of each, even in this world. Whose 
pleasures are the most exquisite ? Whose de- 
lights the most lasting ? Whose state is the most 
enviable? His who barters his hopes of eternal 
welfare for a few fleeting moments of brutal 
gratification, or his who, while he keeps a 
future state alone in his view, finds happiness 
in the conscientious performance of his duties, 
and the scrupulous fulfilment of the end of his 
sojourn here ? Believe me, my friends, there is 
no comparison between them. The joys of the 
infatuated mortal who sacrifices his soul to his 
sensualities, are mixed with bitterness and 
anguish. The voice of conscience rises dis- 
tinctly to his ear, amid the shouts of intem- 
perance and the sallies of obstreperous mirth. 
In the hour of rejoicing, she whispers her ap- 
palling monitions to him, and his heart sinks 
within him, and the smile of triumphant vil- 
lany is converted into the ghastly grin of hor- 
ror and hopelessness. But, oh ! in the languid 
intervals of dissipation ; in the dead hour of 
the night, when all is solitude and silence, 
when the soul is driven to commune with it- 
self, and the voice of remorse, whose whispers 
were before half drowned in the noise of riot, 
rises dreadfully distinct— What! — what are 
his emotions ! — Who can paint his agonies, his 
execrations, his despair ! Let that man lose 
again, in the vortex of fashion, and folly, and 
vice, the remembrance of his horrors : let him 
smile, let him. laugh and be merry ; believe 
me, my dear readers, he is not happy, he is 
not careless, he is not the jovial being he ap- 
pears to be. His heart is heavy within him ; 
he cannot stifle the reflections which assail him 
in the very moment of enjoyment ; but strip 
the painted veil from his bosom, lay aside the 
trappings of folly, and that man is miserable, 
and not only so, but he has purchased that 
misery at the expense of eternal torment. 

Let us oppose to this awful picture the life 



REFLECTIONS 

of the good man; of him who rises in the 
morning with cheerfulness, to praise his Crea- 
tor for all the good he hath bestowed upon 
him, and to perform with studious exactness 
the duties of his station ; and lays himself 
down on his pillow in the evening in the sweet 
consciousness of the applause of his own heart. 
Place this man on the stormy seas of misfor- 
tune and sorrow — press him with afflictive dis- 
pensations of Providence — snatch from his 
arms the object of his affections— separate him 
for ever from all he loved and held dear on 
earth, and leave him isolated and an outcast 
in the world, — he is calm — he is composed — he 
is grateful — he weeps, for human nature is 
weak, but he still preserves his composure and 
resignation — he still looks up to the Giver of 
all good with thankfulness and praise, and 
perseveres with calmness and fortitude in the 
paths of righteousness. His disappointments 
cannot overwhelm him, for his chief hopes are 
placed far, very far, beyond the reach of hu- 
man vicissitude. " He hath chosen that good 
part, which none can take away from him." 



Here then lies the great excellence of re- 
ligion and piety ; they not only lead to eternal 
happiness, but to the happiness of this world ; 
they not only ensure everlasting bliss, but they 
are the sole means of arriving at that degree of 
felicity which this dark and stormy being is 
capable of, and are the sole supports in the 
hour of adversity and affliction. How infatu- 
ated then must that man be, who can wilful- 
ly shut his eyes to his own welfare, and deviate 
from the paths of righteousness which lead to 
bliss. Even allowing him to entertain the erro- 
neous notion that religion does not lead to hap- 
piness in this life, his conduct is incompatible 
with every idea of a reasonable being. In the 
Spectator we find the following image employ- 
ed to induce a conviction of the magnitude of 
this truth : supposing the whole body of the 
earth were a great ball, or mass of the finest 
sand, and that a single grain, ,or particle of 
this sand, should be annihilated every thou- 
sand years ; supposing then that you had it 
in your choice to be happy all the while this 
prodigious mass was consuming, by this slow 
method, till there was not a grain ofit left, on 
condition that you were to be miserable ever 
after ; or supposing that you might be happy 
for ever after, on condition you would be 



93 

miserable till the whole mass of sand were 
thus annihilated, at the rate of one sand a 
thousand years ; which of these two cases 
would you make your choice ? 

It must be confessed that in this case so 
many * * 



The life of man is transient and unstable ; 
its fairest passages are but a lighter shade of 
evil, and yet those passages form but a dis- 
proportionate part of the picture. We all seek 
Happiness, though with different degrees of 
avidity, while the fickle object of our pursuits 
continually evades the grasp of those who are 
the most eager in the chase ; and, perhaps at 
last throws herself into the arms of those who 
had entirely lost all sight of her, and who, 
when they are most blessed with her enjoy- 
ment, are least conscious that they possess 
her. Were the objects in which we placed the 
consummation of our wishes always virtuous, 
and the means employed to arrive at the 
bourn of our desires uniformly good, there 
can be little doubt that the aggregate of man- 
kind would be as happy as is consistent with 
the state in which they live : but, unfortu- 
nately vicious men pursue vicious ends by 
vicious means, and, by so doing, not only en- 
sure their own misery, but they overturn and 
destroy the fair designs of the wiser and the 
better of their kind. Thus he who has no idea 
of a bliss beyond the gratification of his bru- 
tal appetites, involves in the crime of seduc- 
tion, the peace and the repose of a good and 
happy family, and an individual act of evil 
extends itself by a continued impulse over a 
large portion of society. It is thus that men 
of bad minds become the pests of the societies 
of which they happen to be members. It is 
thus that the virtuous among men pay the 
bitter penalty of the crimes and follies of their 
unworthy fellows. 

Men who have passed their whole lives in 
the lap of luxury and enjoyment, have no idea 
of misery beyond that of which they happen to 
be the individual objects. 



FINIS. 



NOTICE 



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And embellished with Portraits on Steel, 

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THE MODEEN FOISTS, 

INCLUDING THE WORKS OF 

BURNS, with his Letters and Life, by Dr. Cukiue, (same as the four 
Volumes Octavo,) in one Volume, . . 9s. Boards. 

KIRKE WHITE 4s. — 

COWPER, .... . . . 3*. 6d. — 

DARWIN'S Botanic Garden, Loves of the Plants, and 

Temple of Nature, . 7s. 

PETER PINDAR, ..... 7^. — 

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THE 



POETICAL REMAINS 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 



OF NOTTINGHAM, 



LATE OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 



No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living Statues there are seen to weep, 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 

Bypon. 



LONDON: 
PUBLISHED BY JONES & COMPANY, 

TEMPLE OF THE MUSES, (LATE LACKINGTON'S,) 
FINSBURY SQUARE. 

1831. 



GLASGOW: 

IDTCHISON ; BROOKMAN, PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 



TO 
HER GRACE 

THE 



DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, 

TME FOLLOWING 

TRIFLING EFFUSIONS 

OF 

A VERY \OUTHFUL MUSE, 

ARK 

BY PERMISSION, DEDICATED 

BY HER GRACE'S 

MUCH OBLIGED 

AND GRATEFUL SERVANT, 

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 



PREFACE. 



The following attempts in Verse are laid be- 
fore the public with extreme diffidence. The 
Author is very conscious that the juvenile 
efforts of a youth, who has not received the 
polish of Academical discipline, and who has 
been but sparingly blessed with opportunities 
for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must 
necessarily be defective in the accuracy and 
finished elegance which mark the works of the 
man who has passed his life in the retirement 
of his study, furnishing his mind with images, 
and at the same time attaining the power of 
disposing those images to the best advan- 
tage. 

The unpremeditated effusions of a Boy, from 
his thirteenth year, employed, not in the 
acquisition of literary information, but in the 
more active business of life, must not be ex- 
pected to exhibit any considerable portion of 
the correctness of a Virgil, or the vigorous 
compression of a Horace. Men are not, I be- 
lieve, frequently known to bestow much labour 
on their amusements : and these Poems were, 
most of them, written merely to beguile a 
leisure hour, or to fill up the languid intervals 
of studies of a severer nature. 

U»i to oixuo; tgyov aytaraa, " Every one loves 
his own work," says the Stagyrite ; but it was- 
no overweening affection of this kind which 
induced this publication. Had the author 
relied on his own judgment only, these Poems 
would not, in all probability, ever have seen 
the light. 

Perhaps it may be asked of him, what are 
his motives for this publication ? He answers 
— simply these : The facilitation, through its 
means, of those studies which, from his earliest 



infancy, have been the principal objects of his 
ambition ; and the increase of the capacity to 
pursue those inclinations which may one day 
place him in an honourable station in the scale 
ofsociety. , 

The principal Poem in this little collection 
(Clifton Grove) is, he fears, deficient in num- 
bers and harmonious coherency of parts. It 
is, however, merely to be regarded as a de- 
scription of a nocturnal ramble in that charm- 
ing retreat, accompanied with such reflections 
as the scene naturally suggested. It was 
written twelve months ago, when the author 
was in his sixteenth year. — The Miscellanies 
are some of them the productions of a very 
early age. — Of the Odes that " To an early 
Primrose" was written at thirteen — the others 
are of a later date. — The Sonnets are chiefly 
irregular; they have, perhaps, no other claim 
to that specific denomination, than that they 
consist only of fourteen lines. 

Such are the Poems towards which 1 entreat 
the lenity of the Public. The Critic will 
doubtless find in them much to condemn ; he 
may likewise possibly discover something to 
commend. Let him scan my faults with an 
indulgent eye, and in the work of that correc- 
tion which I invite, let him remember he is 
holding the iron Mace of Criticism over the 
flimsy superstructure of a youth of seventeen, 
and, remembering that, may he forbear from 
crushing, by too much rigour, the painted 
butterfly whose transient colours may other- 
wise be capable of affording a moment's inno- 
cent amusement. 



H. K. WHITE. 



Nottingham. 



CONTENTS. 



Original Preface to Clifton Grove ... 5 
Lines, by Professor Smyth, of Cambridge, 
on a Monument erected by Francis 
Boott, Esq. in All-Saints' Church, Cam- 
bridge, to the Memory of Henry Kirke 

White 7 

Lines, by Lord Byron . . ib. 

To my Lyre ; an Ode 8 

Clifton Grove , . 9 

Gondoline ; a Ballad 14 

Written on a Survey of the Heavens, in the 

Morning before Day-break 17 

Lines supposed to be spoken by a Lover 

at the Grave of his Mistress 18 

My Study 19 

To an early Primrose ib. 

Sonnet 1. To the Trent 20 

2. " Give me a cottage on some 

Cambrian wild" ib. 

3. Supposed to have been addressed 



by a Female Lunatic to a Lady . . . 

4. In the Character of Dermody . 

5. The Winter Traveller .... 

6. By Capel Lofft, Esq. .... 

7. Recantatory in Reply .... 

8. On hearing an iEolian Harp . . 

9. " What art thou, Mighty One . 

A Ballad. " Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bit- 
ter winds" 

The Lullaby of a Female Convict to her 

child 

Ode to H. Fuseli, 



Esq. R. A 

— to the Earl of Carlisle 

Description of a Summer's Eve . . . . 

To Contemplation 

To the Genius of Romance. Fragment . 

The Savoyard's Return 

Lines. " Go to the raging sea, and say, 

'Be still!"' 

Written in the Prospect of Death . . . 
Pastoral Song. " Come, Anna, come" . . 

Verses . . • . 

Epigram on Robert Bloomfield . . . . 

Ode to Midnight 

to Thought. Written at Midnight . 

Genius ; an Ode 

Fragment of an Ode to the Moon . . . 
■ " Loud rage the winds with- 



ib. 
ib. 
23 
24 

25 
26 
ib. 



Oh, thou most fatal of Pan- 



dora's train" 



27 
ib. 
28 
ib. 
ib. 
ib. 
29 
ib. 
30 

31 

ib. 



Sonnet. To Capel Lofft, Esq 32 

To the Moon ib. 

Written at the Grave of a Friend . ib. 

To Misfortune ib. 

" As thus oppress'd with many a 

heavy care" ib. 

To April 33 

" Ye unseen spirits" . . . . . ib. 

To a Taper ib. 

— To my Mother ib. 

" Yes, 'twill be over soon" . . . ib. 

To Consumption ib. 

" Thy judgments, Lord, are just" . ib. 

To a Friend in Distress, who, when Henry 

reasoned with him calmly, asked, If he 

did not feel for him? 34 

Christmas Day ib : 

Nelsoni Mors 35 

Hymn. " Awake, sweet harp of Judah, 

wake" 36 

Hymn for Family Worship ib. 

The Star of Bethlehem ib 

Hymn. " O Lord, my God, in mercy 

turn" 37 

Melody. " Yes, once more that dying 

strain" ib. 

Song, by Waller, with an additional 

Stanza ib. 

" I am pleased, and yet I'm sad" ... 38 

Solitude ib. 

" If far from me the Fates remove" . . . ib. 
" Fanny, upon thy breast I may not lie . ib. 

FRAGMENTS. 

I. " Saw'st thou that light ?" ... 39 

II. " The pious man in this bad world, ib. 

III. " Lo ! on the eastern summit" . . ib. 

IV. " There was a little bird upon that 
pile" ib. 

V. " O pale art thou, my lamp" ... 40 

VI. " O give me music" ib. 

VII. " Ah ! who can say, however fair 

his view" ib. 

VIII. '■' And most thou go?" ib. 

IX. " When I sit musing on the cbec- 

quer'd past" , . . ib. 

X. " When high romance, o'er every 

wood and stream" ib. 

XI. " Hush'd is the lyre" 41 

XII. " Once more, and yet once more" . ib. 



IV 

Time 41 

Childhood, Part 1 48 



CONTENTS* 



II. 



50 

Fragment of ua Eccentric Drama ... 53 

To a Friend 55 

On reading the Poems of Warton . . . ib. 

To the Muse ib. 

To Love 56 

The Wandering Boy ib. 

Fragment. " The western gale" . . . ib. 

Ode, written on Whit-Monday .... 57 

Canzonet 58 

Commencement of a Poem on Despair . . ib. 

To the Wind ; a Fragment ib. 

The Eve of Death ib. 

Thanatos 59 

Athanatos ib. 

On Music 60 

Ode to the Harvest Moon ib. 

Song. " Softly, softly blow, ye breezes" . 61 

The Shipwreck'd Solitary's Song . . . ib. 

Sonnet 62 

On being confined to School one pleasant 
Morning in Spring ; written at the Age 

of Thirteen ib. 

Extract from an Address to Contempla- 
tion 03 



To the Rosemary 63 

To the Morning 64 

My own Character ib. 

Ode on Disappointment 65 

Lines, written in Wilford Church-Yard, 

on Recovery from Sickness 66 

The Christiad 67 

TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

Lines and Note, by Lord Byron .... 72 
written in the Homer of Mr. H. K. 

White ib. 

To the Memory of H. K. White, by a Lady 73 
Stanzas, supposed to have been written at 

the grave of H. K. White, by a Lady . ib. 

Ode on the late H. K. White 74 

Verses occasioned by the Death of H. K. 

White, by Josiah Conder ib. 

Sonnet by Arthur Owen 75 

in Memory of Mr. H. K. White . ib. 

Reflections on reading the Life of the late 

H. K. White, by William Halloway . ib. 
Lines, on reading the Poem on Solitude, 

by Josiah Conder 76 

To the Memory of H. K. White by the 

Rev. W. B. Collyer, A. M ib. 

On the Death of H. K. White, by T. Park ib. 



INSCRIPTION 

BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. PROFESSOR OF MODERN HISTORY, 
CAMBRIDGE ; 

ON A MONUMENTAL TABLET, 

WITH A MEDALLION BY CHANTREY, 

ERECTED IN ALL-SAINTS* CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE, 

AT THE EXPENSE OF FRANCIS BOOTT, ESQ. 

OF BOSTON, UNITED STATES. 



HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 

BORN MARCH 21st, 1785; DIED OCTOBER 10th, 1806. 

Warm with fond hope, and learning's sacred flame, 
To Granta's bowers the youthful Poet came ; 
UnconquerM powers, th* immortal mind display'd, 
But worn with anxious thought the frame decay'd : 
Pale o'er his lamp and in his cell retired, 
The Martyr Student faded and expired. 
O Genius, Taste, and Piety sincere, 
Too early lost, midst duties too severe ! 
Foremost to mourn was generous Sodthey seen, 
He told the tale and show'd what White had been, 
Nor told in vain — far o'er th' Atlantic wave, 
A Wanderer came and sought the Poet's grave ; 
On yon low stone he saw his lonely name, 

And raised this fond memorial to his fame. 

W. S. 



LINES 

BY LORD BYRON. 

No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living Statues there are seen to weep : 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom* 



TO SffST ItfflBIBo 
AN ODE. 



I. 



Thou simple Lyre !— Thy music wild 

Has served to charm the weary hour, 
And many a lonely night has 'guiled, 
When even pain has own'd and smileJ, 
Its fascinating power. 

II. 

Yet, oh my Lyre ! the busy crowd 

Will little heed thy simple tones : 
Them mightier minstrels harping loud 
Engross, — and thou and I must shroud 
Where dark oblivion 'thrones. 

III. 

No hand, thy diapason o'er, 

Well skillM, I throw with sweep sublime ; 
For me, no academic lore 
Has taught the solemn strain to pour, 

Or build the polish'd rhyme. 

IV. 

Yet thou to Sylvan themes canst soar ; 

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train : 
The rustic swains believe thy power 
Can hush the wild winds when they roar, 

\nd still the billowy main. 



V. 



These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep, 
I, still unknown, may live with thee. 
And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep 
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep, 
Beneath the alder tree. 

VI. 

This little dirge will please me more 

Than the full requiem's swelling peal ; 
I'd rather than that crowds should sigh 
For me, that from some kindred eye 
The trickling tear should steal. 

VII. 

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay, 

- Perhaps from me debarr'd : 
And dear to me the classic zone, 
Which, snatch'd from learning's labour'd 
Adorns the accepted bard. [throne 

VIII. 

And O ! if yet 'twere mine to dwell 
Where Cam or Isis winds along, 

Perchance, inspired with ardour chaste, 

I yet might call the ear of taste 
To listen to my song. 



IX. 

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style 

I'd change to happier lays, 
Oh ! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile, 
And through the long, the fretted aisle 

Should swell the note of praise. 



(BILHSfSP^Sr <BIB<DVIB8 



A SKETCH IN VERSE. 



Lo ! in the west, fast fades the lingering light, 
And day's last vestige takes its silent flight. 
No more is heard the woodman's measured 

stroke [broke ; 

Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle 
No more hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted 

head, [bed; 

The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd 
Still'd is the village hum — the woodland sounds 
Have ceased to echo o'er the dewy grounds, 
And general silence reigns, save when below, 
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to 

flow ; 
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late, 
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate ; 
Or when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale, 
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale. 

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile, 
Released from day and its attendant toil, 
And draws his household round their evening 

fire, 
And tells the oft-told tales that never tire ; 
Or where the town's blue turrets dimly rise, 
And manufacture taints the ambient skies, 
The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom, 
The air-pent hold, the pestilential room, 
And rushes out, impatient to begin 
The stated course of customary sin ; 
Now, now my solitary way I bend 
Where solemn groves in awful state impend. 
And cliff's, that boldly rise above the plain, 
Bespeak, bless'd Clifton ! thy sublime domain. 
Here lonely wandering o'er the sylvan bower, 
I come to pass the meditative hour ; 
To bid awhile the strife of passion cease, 
And woo the calms of solitude and peace. 
And oh ! thou sacred Power, who rear'st on 

high 
Thy leafy throne where waving poplars sigh ! 
Genius of woodland shades ! whose mild con- 
trol 
Steals with resistless witchery to the soul, 
Come with thy wonted ardour, and inspire 
My glowing bosom with thy hallowed fire. 
And thou too, Fancy, from thy starry sphere, 
Where to the hymning orbs thou lend'st thine 
ear, 



Do thou descend, and bless my ravish'd sight, 
Veil'd in soft visions of serene delight. 
At thy command the gale that passes by 
Bears in its whispers mystic harmony. 
Thou wav'st thy wand, and lo ! what forms 

appear ! 
On the dark cloud what giant shapes career ' 
The ghosts of Ossian skim the misty vale, 
And hosts of Sylphidson the moon-beams sail. 

This gloomy alcove darkling to the sight, 
Where meeting trees create eternal night; 
Save, when from yonder stream, the sunny ray, 
Reflected, gives a dubious gleam of day ; 
Recalls, endearing to my alter'd mind, 
Times, when beneath the boxen hedge reclined, 
I watch'd the lapwing to her clamorous brood ; 
Or lured the robin to its scatter'd food ; 
Or woke with song the woodland echo wild, 
And at each gay response delighted smiled. 
How oft, when childhood threw its golden ray 
Of gay romance o'er every happy day, 
Here would I run, a visionary boy, 
When the hoarse tempest shook the vaulted sky, 
And, fancy-led, beheld the Almighty's form 
Sternly careering on the eddying storm ; 
And heard, while awe congeal'd my inmost 

soul, 
His voice terrific in the thunders roll. 
With secret joy, I view'd with vivid glare 
The volley'd lightnings cleave the sullen air ; 
And, as the warring winds around reviled, 
With awful pleasure big, — I heard and smiled. 
Beloved remembrance ! — Memory which en- 
dears 
This silent spot to my advancing years. 
Here dwells eternal peace, eternal rest, 
In shades like these to live is to be bless'd. 
While happiness evades the busy crowd, 
In rural coverts loves the maid to shroud. 
And thou too, Inspiration, whose wild flame 
Shoots with electric swiftness through the 

frame, 
Thou here dost love to sit with up-turn'd eye, 
And listen to the stream that murmurs by, 
The woods that wave, the gray owl's silken 

flight, 
The mellow music of the listening night. 
B 



10 



Congenial calms more welcome to my breast 
Than maddening joy in dazzling lustre dress'd, 
To Heaven my prayers, my daily prayers, I 

raise, 
That ye may bless my unambitious days, 
Withdrawn, remote, from all the haunts of 

strife, 
May trace with me the lowly vale of life, 
And when herbanner Death shall o'er me wave, 
May keep your peaceful vigils on my grave. 
Now as I rove, where wide the prospect grows, 
A livelier light upon my vision flows. 
No more above th' embracing branches meet, 
No more the river gurgles at my feet, 
But seen deep, down the cliff's impending side, 
Through hanging woods, now gleams its silver 

tide. 
Dim is my upland path, — across the Green 
Fantastic shadows fling, yet oft between 
T!:e chequer'd glooms, the moon her chaste 

ray sheds, [heads, 

Where knots of blue-bells droop their graceful 
And beds of violets blooming 'mid the trees, 
Load with waste fragrance the nocturnal 

breeze. 

Say, why does Man, while to his opening sight 
Each shrub presents a source of chaste delight, 
And Nature bids for him her treasures flow, 
And gives to him alone his bliss to know, 
Why does he pant for Vice's deadly charms? 
Why clasp the syren Pleasure to his arms ? 
And suck deep draughts of her voluptuous 

breath, 
Though fraught with ruin, infamy, and death ? 
Could he who thus to vile enjoyment clings, 
Know what calm joy from purer sources 

springs ; [strife, 

Could he but feel how sweet, how free from 
The harmless pleasures of a harmless life, 
No more his soul would pant for joys impure, 
The deadly chalice would no more allure, 
But the sweet portion he was wont to sip, 
Would turn tu poison on his conscious lip. 

Fair Nature ! thee, in all thy varied charms, 
Fain would I clasp for ever in my arms ! 
Thine are the sweets which never, never sate, 
Thine still remain through all the storms of fate. 
Though not for me, 'twas Heaven's divine 

command 
To roll in acres of paternal land, 
Yet still my lot is bless'd, while I enjoy 
Thine opening beauties with a lover's eye. 

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss 
Has ever shunn'd him when he thought to kiss, 
Who, still in abject poverty or pain, 
Can count with pleasure what small joys re- 
main : 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMSa 

Though were his sight convey'd from zone to 

zone, 
He would not find one spot of ground his own, 
Yet, as he looks around, he cries with glee, 
These bounding prospects all were made for 

me : 
For me yon waving fields their burden bear, 
For me yon labourer guides the shining share, 
While happy I in idle ease recline, 
And mark the glorious visions as they shine. 
This is the charm, by sages often told, 
Converting all it touches into gold. 
Content can soothe, where'er by fortune placed, 
Can rear a garden in the desart waste. 



How lovely, from this hill's superior height, 
Spreads the wide view before my straining 

sight ! 
O'er many a varied mile of lengthening ground, 
E'en to the blue-ridged hill's remotest bound, 
My ken is borne ; while o'er my head serene, 
The silver moon illumes the misty scene ; 
Now shining clear, now darkening in the 

glade, 
In all the soft varieties of shade. 

Behind me, lo ! the peaceful hamlet lies, 
The drowsy god has seal'd the cotter's eyes. 
No more, where late the social faggot blazed, 
The vacant peal resounds, by little raised ; 
But lock'd in silence, o'er Arion's* star 
The slumbering Night rolls on her velvet car : 
The church-bell tolls, deep-sounding down the 

glade, 
The solemn hour for walking spectres made ; 
The simple plough-boy, wakening with the 

sound, 
Listens aghast, and turns him startled round, 
Then stops his ears, and strives to close his 

eyes, 
Lest at the sound some grisly ghost should rise. 
Now ceased the long, and monitory toll, 
Returning silence stagnates in the soul ; 
Save when, disturb'd by dreams, with wild 

affright, • [night : 

The deep mouth'd mastiff bays the troubled 
Or where the village ale-house crowns the 

vale, 
The creeking sign-post whistles to the gale. 
A little onward let me bend my way,~ 
Where the moss'd seat invites the traveller's 

stay. 
That spot, oh ! yet it is the very same ; 
That hawthorn gives it shade, and gave it 

name : 
There yet the primrose opes its earliest bloom, 
There yet the violet sheds its first perfume, 
And in the branch that rears above the rest 
The robin unmolested builds its nest. 



* The Constellation Delphinus. 
appellation, vide Ovid's Fasti, B. ; 



For authority for this 
. 113. 



CLIFTON GAOVE. 



11 



'Twas here, when hope, presiding o'er my 

breast, 
In vivid colours every pr-ospect dress'd : 
'Twas here, reclining, I indulged her dreams, 
And lost the hour in visionary schemes. 
Here, as I press once more the ancient seat, 
Why, bland deceiver! not renew the cheat! 
Say, can a few short years this change achieve, 
That thy illusions can no more deceive ! 
Time's sombrous tints have every view o'er- 

spread, 
And thou too, gay seducer ; art thou fled ? 
Though vain thy promise, and the suit severe, 
Yet thou couldst guile Misfortune of her 

tear, 
And oft thy smiles across life's gloomy way, 
Could throw a gleam of transitory day. 
How gay, in youth, the flattering future seems ; 
How sweet is manhood in the infant's dreams ; 
The dire mistake too soon is brought to light, 
And all is buried in redoubled night. 
Yet some can rise superior to their pain, 
And in their breasts the charmer Hope retain : 
While others, dead to feeling, can survey, 
Unmoved, their fairest prospects fade away : 
But yet a few there be, — too soon o'ercast! 
Who shrink unhappy from the adverse blast» 
And woo the first bright gleam, which breaks 

the gloom, 
To gild the silent slumbers of the tomb. 
So in these shades the early primrose blows, 
Too soon deceived by suns and melting snows, 
So falls untimely on the desert waste ; 
Its blossoms withering in the northern blast. 

Now pass'd whate'er the upland heights dis- 
play, 
"Down the steep cliff I wind my devious way ; 
Oft rousing, as the rustling path I beat, 
The timid hare from its accustom'd seat. 
And oh ! how sweet thii walk o'erhung with 

wood, 
That winds the margin of the solemn flood ! 
What rural objects steal upon the sight ! 
What rising views prolong the calm delight ; 
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent, 
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent, 
The woody island, and the naked mead, 
The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed, 
The rural wicket, and the rural stile, [pile. 
And, frequent interspersed, the woodman's 
Above, below, where'er I turn my eyes, 
Rocks, waters, woods, in grand succession 

rise. 
High up the cliff the varied groves ascend, 
And mournful larches o'er the wave impend. 
Around, what sounds, what magic sounds, 

arise, 
What glimmering scenes salute my ravish'd 
eves ? 



Soft sleep the waters on their pebbly bed, 
The woods wave gently o'er my drooping head, 
And, swelling slow, comes wafted on the wind, 
Lorn Progne's note from distant copse behind. 
Still, every rising sound of calm delight 
Stamps but the fearful silence of the night, 
Save when is heard, between each dreary rest, 
Discordant from her solitary nest, 
The owl, dull-screaming to the wandering 

moon ; [noon : 

Now riding, cloud-wrapt, near her highest 
Or when the wild-duck, southering, hither 

rides, 
And plunges sullen in the sounding tides. 

Hoav oft, in this sequester'd spot, when youth 
Gave to each tale the holy force of truth, 
Have I long linger'd, while the milk-maid 

sung 
The tragic legend, till the woodland rung ! 
That tale, so sad ! which, still to memory dear, 
From its sweet source can call the sacred tear, 
And (lulled to rest stern Reason's harsh con- 
trol) 
Steal its soft magic to the passive soul. 
These hallow'd shades, — these trees that woo 

the wind, 
Recall its faintest features to my mind. 

A hundred passing years, with march sublime, 
Have swept beneath the silent wing of time, 
Since, in yon hamlet's solitary shade, 
Reclusely dw elt the far-famed Clifton Maid, 
The beauteous Margaret ; for her each swain 
Confess'd in private his peculiar pain, 
In secret sigh'd, a victim to despair, 
Nor dared to hope to w in the peerless fair. 
No more the shepherd on the blooming mead 
Attuned to gaiety his artless reed, 
No more entwined the pansied wreath, to 

deck 
His favourite wether's unpolluted neck, 
But listless, by yon babbling stream reclined 
He mixed his sobbings with the passing wind, 
Bemoan'd his helpless love ; or, boldly bent, 
Far from these smiling fields, a rover went, 
O'er distant lands, in search of ease, to roam, 
A self-will'd exile from his native home. 

Yet not to all the maid express'd disdain ; 
Her Bateman loved, nor loved the youth in 
vain. ' [boughs, 

Full oft, low whispering o'er these arching 
The echoing vault responded to their vows, 
As here deep hidden from the glare of day, 
Enamour'd oft, they took their secret way. 

Yon bosky dingle, still the rustics name ; 
'Twas there the blushing maid confess'd her 
flame. 



12 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



Down yon green lane they oft were seen to 

hie, 
When evening slumber' d on the western sky. 
That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut 

bare, 
Each bears mementos of the fated pair. 

One eve, when Autumn loaded every breeze 
With the fall'n honours of the mourning trees, 
The maiden waited at the accustom'd bower, 
And waited long beyond the appointed hour, 
Yet Bateman came not ; — o'er the woodland 

drear, 
Howling portentous, did the winds career ; 
And bleak and dismal on the leafless woods, 
The fitful rains rush'd down in sullen floods ; 
The night was dark ; as, now and then, the 
gale [pale ; 

Paused for a moment, — Margaret listen'd, 
But through the covert to her anxious ear, 
No rustling footstep spoke her lover near. 
Strange fears now fill'd her breast, — she knew 
not why, [sigh. 

She sigh'd, and Bateman's name was in each 
She hears a noise, — 'tis he, — he comes at 

last;— 
Alas ! 'twas but the gale which hurried past : 
But now she hears a quickening footstep 

sound, 
Lightly it comes, and nearer does it bound ; 
'Tis Bateman's self, — he springs into her arms, 
'Tis he that clasps, and chides her vain alarms. 
" Yet why this silence ? — I have waited long, 
And the cold storm has yell'd the trees among. 
And now thou'rt here my fears are fled — yet 

speak, 
Why does the salt tear moisten on thy cheek? 
Say, what is wrong ?" — Now, through a part- 
ing cloud, [shroud, 
The pale moon peer'd from her tempestuous 
And Bateman's face was seen : — 'twas deadly 

white, 
And sorrow seem'd to sicken in his sight. 
" Oh, speak, my love !" again the maid con- 
jured, 
Why is thy heart in sullen wo immured ?" 
He raised his head, and thrice essay'd to tell, 
Thrice from his lips the unfinish'd accents fell ; 
When thus at last reluctantly he broke 
His boding silence, and the maid bespoke : 
' Grieve not, my love, but ere the morn ad- 
vance, 
I on these fields must cast my parting glance ; 
For three long years, by cruel fate's command, 
I go to languish in a foreign land. 
Oh, Margaret! omens dire have met my view ? 
Say, when far distant, wilt thou bear me true ? 
Should honours tempt thee, and should riches 

fee, 
Wouldst thou forget thine ardent vows to me, 



And, on the silken couch of wealth reclined, 
Banish thy faithful Bateman from thy mind ?" 

" Oh ! why," replies the maid, " my faith 
thus prove, [love ? 

Canst thou ! ah, canst thou, then suspect my 
Hear me, just God ! if from my traitorous 
heart, [part, 

My Bateman's fond remembrance e'er shall 
If, when he hail again his native shore, 
He finds his Margaret true to him no more, 
May fiends of hell, and every power of dread, 
Conjoin'd, then drag me from my perjured 
bed, [steeps, 

And hurl me headlong down these awful 
To find deserved death in yonder deeps!"* 

Thus spake the maid, and from her finger 

drew 
A golden ring, and broke it quick in two ; 
One half she in her lovely bosom hides, 
The other, trembling, to her love confides. 
" This bind the vow," she said, " this mystic 

charm, 
No future recantation can disarm, 
The right vindictive does the fates involve, 
No tears can move it, no regrets dissolve." 

She ceased. The death-bird gave a dismal cry, 
The river moan'd, the wild gale whistled by, 
And once again the Lady of the night 
Behind a heavy cloud withdrew her light. 
Trembling she view'd these portents with dis- 
may: 
But gently Bateman kiss'd her fears away : 
Yet still he felt conceal'd a secret smart, 
Still melancholy bodings fill'd his heart. 

When to the distant land the youth was sped, 
A lonely life the moody maiden led. 
Still would she trace each dear, each well- 
known walk, 
Still by the moonlight to her love would talk, 
And fancy, as she paced among the trees, 
She heard his whispers in the dying breeze. 
Thus two years glided on in silent grief; 
The third her bosom own'd the kind relief: 
Absence had cool'd her love — the impover- 
ish'd flame [came; 

Was dwindling fast, when lo ! the tempter 
He offer'd wealth, and all the joys of life, 
And the weak maid became another's wife! 

Six guilty months had mark'd the false one's 
crime, [clime, 

When Bateman hail'd once more his native 
Sure of her constancy, elate he came, 
The lovely partner of his soul to claim, 

* This part of the Trent is commonly called " The Clif 
ton Deeps.'''' 



CLIFTON GROVE. 



13 



Light was his heart, as up the well-known 

way [gay. 

He bent his steps — and all his thoughts were 
Oh ! who can paint his agonizing throes, 
When on his ear the fatal news arose ! 
Chill'd with amazement, — senseless with the 

blow, 
He stood a marble monument of wo ; 
Till call'd to all the horrors of despair, 
He smote his brow, and tore his horrent hair ; 
Then rush'd impetuous from the dreadful spot, 
And sought those scenes, (by memory ne'er 

forgot,) [flame, 

Those scenes, the witness of their growing 
And now like witnesses of Margaret's shame. 
'Twas night— he sought the river's lonely 

shore, [o'er. 

And traced again their former wanderings 
Now on the bank in silent grief he stood, 
And gazed intently on the stealing flood, 
Death in his mien and madness in his eye, 
He watch'd the waters as they murmur'd by ; 
Bade the base murderess triumph o'er his 

grave — 
Prepared to plunge into the whelming wave. 
Yet still he stood irresolutely bent, 
Religion sternly stay'd his rash intent. 
He knelt. — Cool play'd upon his cheek the 

wind, 
And fann'd the fever of his maddening mind. 
The willows waved, the stream it sweetly 

swept, • 

The paly moonbeam on its surface slept, 
And all was peace ; — he felt the general calm 
O'er his rack'd bosom shed a genial balm : 
When casting far behind his streaming eye, 
He saw the Grove, — in fancy saw her lie, 
His Margaret, luli'd in Germain's* arms to 

rest, 
And all the demon rose within his breast. 
Convulsive now, he clench'd his trembling 

hand, 
.Cast his dark eye once more upon the land, 
Then, at one spring he spurn'd the yielding 

bank, 
And in the calm deceitful current sank. 

Sad, on the solitude of night, the sound, 

As in the stream he plunged, was heard 

around : [more, 

Then all was still — the wave was rough no 
The river swept as sweetly as before; 
The willows waved, the moonbeams shone 

serene, 
And peace returning brooded o'er the scene. 

Now, see upon the perjured fair one hang 
Remorse's glooms and never-ceasing pang. 

* Germain is the traditionary name of her husband. 



Full well she knew, repentant now too late, 

She soon must bow beneath the stroke of fate. 

But, for the babe she bore beneath her breast, 

The offended God prolong'd her life un- 
bless'd. 

But fast the fleeting moments roll'd away, 

And near, and nearer drew the dreadea day ; 

That day, foredoom'd to give her child the 
light, 

And hurl its mother to the shades of night. 

The hour arrived, and from the wretched wife 

The guiltless baby struggled into life. — 

As night drew on, around her bed, a band 

Of friends and kindred kindly took their 
stand ; 

In holy prayer they pass'd the creeping time, 

Intent to expiate her awful crime. 

Their prayers were fruitless. — As the mid- 
night came, 

A heavy sleep oppress'd each weary frame. 

In vain they strove against the o'erwhelming 
load, 

Some power unseen their drowsy lids be- 
strode. 

They slept, till in the blushing eastern sky 

The blooming Morning oped her dewy eye ; 

Then wakening wide they sought the ravish'd 
bed, 

But lo ! the hapless Margaret was fled ; 

And never more the weeping train were 
doom'd 

To view the false one, in the deeps intomb'd. 

The neighbouring rustics told that in the night 
They heard such screams as froze them with 

affright ; 
And many an infant, at its mother's breast, 
Started dismay'd, from its unthinking rest. 
And even now, upon the heath forlorn, 
They show the path down which the fair was 

borne, 
By the fell demons, to the yawning wave, 
Her own, and murder'd lover's, mutual grave. 

Such is the tale, so sad, to memory dear, 
Which oft in youth has charm'd my listening 

ear, 
That tale, whichbade me find redoubled sweets 
In the drear silence of these dark retreats, 
And even now, with melancholy power, 
Adds a new pleasure to the lonely hour. 
'Mid all the charms by magic Nature given 
To this wild spot, this sublunary heaven, 
With double joy enthusiast Fancy leans 
On the attendant legend of the scenes. 
This sheds a fairy lustre on the floods, 
And breathes a mellower gloom upon the 

woods ; 
This, as the distant cataract swells around, 
Gives a romantic cadence to the sound : 



14. 



H. K. WHITER POEMS, 



This, and the deepening glen, the alley green 
The silver stream, with sedgy tufts between, 
Tiie massy rock, the wood-encompass'd leas, 
The broom-clad islands, and the nodding trees 
The lengthening vista, and the present gloom, 
The verdant pathway breathing waste per- 
fume ; 
These are thy charms, the joys which these 
impart [heart. 

Bind thee, bless'd Clifton ! close around my 

Dear Native Grove ! where'er my devious 

track, 
To thee will Memory lead the wanderer back. 
Whether in Arno's polish'd vales I stray, 
Or where '« Oswego's swamps" obstruct the 

day; 
Or wander lone, where, wildering and wide, 
The tumbling torrent laves St. Gothard's side; 
Or by old Tejo's classic margent muse, 
Or stand entranced with Pyrenean views ; 
Still, still to thee, where'er my footsteps roam, 
My heart shall point, and lead the wanderer 

home. [cites, 

When Splendour offers, and when Fame in- 
I'll pause, and think of all thy dear delights, 



Reject the boon, and, wearied with the change, 
Renounce the wish which first induced to 

range ; 
Turn to these scenes, these well-known scenes 

once more, 
Trace once again old Trent's romantic shore, 
And, tired with worlds, and all their busy 

ways, 
Here waste the little remnant of my days. 
But, if the Fates should this last wish deny, 
And doom me on some foreign shore to die ; 
Oh ! should it please the world's supernal 

King, 
That weltering waves my funeral dirge shall 

sing; 
Or that my corse should, on some desert 

strand, 
Lie stretch'd beneath the Simoom's blasting 

hand ; 
Still, though unwept I find a stranger tomb, 
My sprite shall wander through this favourite 

gloom, 
Ride on the windthatsweeps the leafless grove. 
Sigh on the wood-blast of the dark alcove, 
Sit, a lorn spectre on yon well-known grave, 
And mix itsmoanings with the desert wave. 



MIIStBIBILIL&lKriBQIira S>(DIBStt8< 



GONDOLINE; 

A BALLAD. 

The night it was still, and the moon it ,\hone 

Serenely on the sea, 
And the waves at the foot of the rifted rock 

They murmur'd pleasantly. 

When Gondoline roam'd along the shore, 
A maiden full fair to the sight ; 

Though love had made bleak the rose on her 
cheek, 
And turn'd it to deadly white. 

Her thoughts they were drear, and the silent 
tear 

It fill'd her faint blue eye, 
As oft she heard, in Fancy's ear, 

Her Bertrand's dying sigh. 

Her Bertrand was the bravest youth 

Of all our good King's men, 
And he was gone to the Holy Land 

To fight the Saracen. 



And many a month had pass'd away, 

And many a rolling year, 
But nothing the maid from Palestine 

Could of her lover hear. 

Full oft she vainly tried to pierce 

The Ocean's misty face ; 
Full oft she thought her lover's bark 

She on the wave could trace. 

And every night she placed a light 
In the high rock's lonely tower, 

To guide her lover to the land, 

Should the murky tempest lower. 

But now despair had seized her breast, 

And sunken in her eye ; 
" Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 

And I in peace will die." 

She wander'd o'er the lonely shore, 

The Curlew scream'd above, 
She heard the scream with a sickening heart 

Much boding of her love. 



H. K. 

Yet still she kept her lonely way, 
And this was all her cry, 

" Oh ! tell me but if Bertrand live, 
And I in peace shall die." 

And now she came to a horrible rift, 
All in the rock's hard side, 

A bleak and blasted oak o'erspread 
The cavern yawning wide. 

And pendant from its dismal top 
The deadly nightshade hung ; 

The hemlock and the aconite 

Across the mouth were flung. 

And all within was dark and drear, 
And all without was calm ; 

Yet Gondoline entered, her soul upheld 
By some deep -working charm. 



And as she enter'd the cavern wide, 
The moonbeam gleamed pale, 

And she saw a snake on the craggy rock, 
It clung by its slimy tail. 

Her foot it slipped, and she stood aghast, 
She trod on a bloated toad ; 

Yet, still upheld by the secret charm, 
She kept upon her road. 

And now upon her frozen ear 

Mysterious sounds arose ; 
So, on the mountain's piny top, 

The blustering north wind blows. 

Then furious peals of laughter loud 

Were heard with thundering sound, 

Till they died away in soft decay, 
Low whispering o'er the ground. 

Yet still the maiden onward went, 
The charm yet onward led, 

Though each big glaring ball of sight 
Seem'd bursting from her head. 

But now a pale blue light she saw, 

It from a distance came, 
She followed, till upon her sight, 

Burst full a flood of flame. 

She stood appall'd ; yet still the charm 

Upheld her sinking soul ; 
Yet each bent knee the other smote, 

And each wild eye did roll. 

And such a sight as she saw there, 

No mortal saw before, 
And such a sight as she saw there, 

No mortal shall see more. 



WHITE'S POEMS, 

A burning cauldron stood in the midst 
The flame was fierce and high, 

And all the cave so wide and long, 
Was plainly seen thereby. 



15 



And round about the cauldron stout 
Twelve withered witches stood : 

Their waists were bound with living snakes, 
And their hair was stiff with blood. 

Their hands were gory too ; and red 
And fiercely flamed their eyes : 

And they were muttering indistinct 
Their hellish mysteries. 

And suddenly they join'd their hands, 

And uttered a joyous cry, 
And round about the cauldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

And now they stopp'd; and each prepaied 

To tell what she had done, 
Since last the Lady of the night 

Her waning course had run. 

Behind a rock stood Gondoline, 

Thick weeds her face did veil, 
And she lean'd fearful forwarder, 

To hear the dreadful tale. 

The first arose : She said she'd seen 

Rare sport since the blind cat mew d, 

She'd been to sea in a leaky sieve, 
And a jovial storm had brew'd. 

She call'd around the winged winds, 

And rais'd a devilish rout ; 
And she laugh'd so loud, the peals were 
heard 

Full fifteen leagues about. 

She said there was a little bark 

Upon the roaring wave, 
And there was a woman there who'd been * 

To see her husband's grave. 

And she had got a child in her arms, 

It was her only child, 
And oft its little infant pranks 

Her heavy heart beguil'd. 

And there was too in that same bark, 

A father and his son ; 
The lad was sickly, and the sire 

Was old and woe-begone. 

And when the tempest waxed strong, 
And the bark could no more it 'bide, 

She said it was jovial fun to hear 
How the pcor devils cried. 



l6 H K. 

1 he mother clasp'd her orphan child 
Unto her breast, and wept ; 

And sweetly folded in her arms 
The careless baby slept. 



WHITE'S POEMS. 

And the hag had work'd the daughter up 
To murder her old mother, 

That then she might seize on all her goods, 
And wanton with her lover. 



And she told how, in the shape o' the wind, 

As manfully it roar'd, 
She twisted her hand in the infant's hair 

And threw it overboard. 

And to have seen the mother's pangs, 
'Twas a glorious sight to see ; 

The crew could scarcely hold her down 
From jumping in the sea. 

The hag held a lock of the hair in her hand, 

And it was soft and fair : 
It must have been a lovely child, 

To have had such lovely hair. 

And she said, the father in his arms 

He held his sickly son, 
And his dying throes they fast arose, 

His pains were nearly done. 

And she throttled the youth with her sinewy 
hands, 

And his face grew deadly blue ; 
And his father he tore his thin gray hair, 

And kiss'd the livid hue. 

And then she told, how she bored a hole 
In the bark, and it fill'd away : 

And 'twas rare to hear, how some did swear, 
And some did vow and pray. 

The man and woman they soon were dead, 
The sailors their strength did urge ; 

But the billows that beat were their winding- 
sheet, 
And the winds sung their funeral dirge. 

She threw the infant's hair in the fire, 

The red flame flamed high, 
And round about the cauldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

The second begun : She said she had done 
The task that Queen Hecat' had set her, 

And that the devil, the father of evil, 
Had never accomplish'd a better. 

She said, tnere was an aged woman, 

And she had a daughter fair. 
Whose evil habits fill'd her heart 

With misery and care. 

The daughter had a paramour. 

A wicked man was he, 
And oft the woman him against 

Did murmur grievously. 



And one night as the old woman 

Was sick and ill in bed, 
And pondering sorely on the life 

Her wicked daughter led, 

She beard her footstep on the floor, 
And she raised her pallid head, 

And she saw her daughter, with a knife, 
Approaching to her bed. 

And said, My child, I'm very ill, 

I have not long to live, 
Now kiss my cheek, that ere I die 

Thy sins I may forgive. 

And the murderess bent to kiss her cheek, 
And she lifted the sharp bright knife, 

And the mother saw her fell intent, 
And hard she begg'd for life. 

But prayers would nothing her avail, 
And she scream'd aloud with fear, 

But the house was lone, and the piercing 
screams 
Could" reach no human ear. 

And though that she was sick, and old, 
She struggled hard, and fought; 

The murderess cut three fingers through 
Ere she could reach her throat. 

And the hag she held the fingers up, 

The skin was mangled sore, 
And they all agreed a nobler deed 

Was never done before. 

And she threw the fingers in the fire, 

The red flame flamed high, 
And round about the cauldron stout 

They danced right merrily. 

The third arose ; She said she'd been 

To Holy Palestine ; 
And seen more blood in one short day, 

Than they had all seen in nine. 

Now Gondoline, with fearful steps, 

Drew nearer to the flame, 
For much she dreaded now to hear 

Her hapless lover's name. 

The hag related then the sports 

Of that eventful day, 
When on the well-contested field 

Full fifteen thousand lay. 



She said that she in human gore 

Above the knees did wade, 
And that no tongue could truly tell 

The tricks she there had play'd. 

There was a gallant -featured youth, 

Who like a hero fought ; 
■ He kiss'd a bracelet on his wrist, 

And every danger sought. 

And in a vassal's garb disguised, 

Unto the knight she sues, 
And tells him she from Britain comes, 

And brings unwelcome news. 

That three days ere she had embark'd, 

His love had given her hand 
Unto a wealthy Thane : — and thought 

Him dead in holy land. 

And to have seen how he did writhe 

When this her tale she told, 
It would have made a wizard's blood 

Within his heart run cold. 

Then fierce he spurr'd his warrior steed, 

And sought the battle's bed : 
And soon all mangled o'er with wounds, 

He on the cold turf bled. 

And from his smoking corse she tore 

His head, half clove in two, 
She ceased, and from beneath her garb 

The bloody trophy drew. 

The eyes were starting from their socks, 

The mouth it ghastly grinn'd, 
And there was a gash across the brow. 

The scalp was nearly skinn'd. 

'Twas Bertrand's Head ! ! With a terrible 
The maiden gave a spring, [scream, 

And from her fearful hiding place 
She fell into the ring. 

The lights they fled — the cauldron sunk, 
Deep thunders shook the dome, 

And hollow peals of laughter came 
Resounding through the gloom. 

Insensible the maiden lay 

Upon the hellish ground, 
And still mysterious sounds were heard 

At intervals around. 

She woke — she half arose, — and wild, 

She cast a horrid glare, 
The sounds had ceased, the lights had fled, 

And all was stillness there. 

And through an awning in the rock, 
The moon it sweetly shone, 



GONDOLINE. 

And show'd a river in the cave 
Which dismally did moan. 

The stream was black, it sounded deep, 
As it rush'd the rocks between, 

It ofler'd well, for madness fired 
The breast of Gondoline. 

She plunged in, the torrent moan'd 
With its accustom'd sound, 

And hollow peals of laughter loud 
Again rebellow'd round. 



17 



The maid was seen no more. — But oft 
Her ghost is known to glide, 

At midnight's silent, solemn hour, 
Along the ocean's side. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS, 

In the Morning before Day-break. 

Ye many twinkling stars, who yet do hold 

Your brilliant places in the sable vault 

Of night's dominions ! — Planets, and central 

orbs 
Of other systems :— big as the burning sun 
Which lights this nether globe, — yet to our eye 
Small as the glow-worm's lamp ! — To you I 

raise 
My lowly orisons, while, all bewilder'd, 
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts ; 
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, 
Warp'd with low prejudices, to unfold, 
And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soar- 
ing. 
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Hirn, 
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, 
The great Creator ! Him ! who now sublime, 
Wrapt in the solitary amplitude 
Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres 
Sits on his silent throne, and meditates. 

The angelic hosts, in their inferior Heaven, 
Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, 
Repeating loud, " The Lord our God is great," 
In varied harmonies. — The glorious sounds 
Roll o'er the air serene — The iEolian spheres, 
Harping along their viewless boundaries, 
Catch the full note, and cry, " The Lord is 

great," 
Responding to the Seraphim. — O'er all 
Prom orb to orb, to the remotest verge 
Of the created world, the sound is borne, 
Till the whole universe is full of Him. 

Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now 
Tn fancy strikes- upon my listening ear, 
C 



18 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



It bids me smile 
all its bustling 



Almighty God ! 
these wondrous 



And thrills my inmost soul. 
Ou the vain world, and 

cares, 
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. 
Oh ! what is man, when at ambition's height, 
What even are kings, when balanced in the 

scale 
Of these stupendous worlds ! 
Thou, the dread author of 

works ! 
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, 
One look of kind benevolence ? — Thou canst ; 
For Thou art full of universal love, 
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart 
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, 
The pageant insects of a glittering hour. 

Oh ! when reflecting on these truths sublime, 
How insignificant do all the joys, 
The gaudes, and honours of the world appear ! 
How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful 

lamp 
Outwatch'd the slow-paced night? — Why on 

the page, 
The schoolman's labour'd page, have I em- 
ploy 'd 
The hours devoted by the world to rest, 
And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? 
Say, can the voice of narrow Fame repay 
The loss of health ? or can the hope of glory 
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, 
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, 
Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye, 
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek ? 

Say, foolish one— can that unbodied fame, 
For which thou barterest health and happiness, 
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave ? 
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs 
Of everlasting punishment condign ? 
Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! 
How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God ! 
Guide Thou my footsteps in the way of truth, 
And oh ! assist me so to live on earth, 
That I may die in peace, and claim a place 
In thy high dwelling.— All but this is folly, 
The vain illusions of deceitful life. 



LINES, 

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY A LOVER AT 
THE GRAVE OF HIS MISTRESS. 

Occasioned by a Situation in a Romance. 

Mary, the moon is sleeping on thy grave, 
And on the turf thy lover sad is kneeling, 
The big tear in his eye. — Mary, awake, 



From thy dark house arise, and bless his 

sight 
Ou the pale moonbeam gliding. Soft, and low 
Pour on the silver ear of night thy tale, 
Thy whisper'd tale of comfort and of love, 
To soothe thy Edward's lorn, distracted soul, 
And cheer his breaking heart. — Come, a? 

thou didst, 
When o'er the barren moors the night wiiu 

howrd, 
And the deep thunders shook the ebon throne 
Of the startled night.— O ! then, as lone re 

dining, 
I listen'd sadly to the dismal storm, 
Thou on the lambent lightnings wild career- 
ing 
Didst strike my moody eye ;— dead pale thou 

wert, 
Yet passing lovely. — Thou didst smile upon me, 
And oh ! thy voice it rose so musical, 
Betwixt the hollow pauses of the storm, 
That at the sound the winds forgot to rave, 
And the stern demon of the tempest, charm'd, 
Sunk on his rocking throne to still repose, 
Lock'd in the arms of silence. 

Spirit of her ! 
My only love ! — O ! now again arise, 
And let once more thine aery accents fall 
Soft on my listening ear. The night is calm, 
The gloomy willows wave in sinking cadence 
With the stream that sweeps below. Divinely 

swelling 
On the still air, the distant waterfall 
Mingles its melody ; — and, high above, 
The pensive empress of the solemn night, 
Fitful, emerging from the rapid clouds, 
Shows her chaste face in the meridian sky. 
No wicked elves upon the Warlock-knoU 
Dare now assemble at their mystic revels ; 
It is a night, when from their primrose beds, 
The gentle ghosts of injured innocents 
Are known to rise, and wander on the 

breeze, 
Or take their stand by the oppressor's couch, 
And strike grim terror to his guilty soul k 
The spirit of my love might now awake, 
And hold its custom'd converse. 

Mary, lo ! 
Thy Edward kneels upon thy verdant grave, 
And calls upon thy name. — The breeze tha 

blows 
On his wan cheek will soon sweep over him 
In solemn music, a funereal dirge, 
Wild and most sorrowful. — His cheek is pale, 
The worm that play'd upon thy youthfil 

bloom, 
It canker'd green on his. — Now lost he stands, 
The ghost of what he was, and the cold dew 
Which bathes his aching temples gives sure 

omen 
Of speedy dissolution.—— Mary, soon 



TO AN 

Thy love will lay his pallid cheek to thine, 
And sweetly will he sleep with thee in death. 



MY STUDY, 

A Letter in Hudibrastic Verse. 

You bid me, Ned, describe the place 
Where 1, one of the rhyming race, 
Pursue my studies con amore, 
And wanton with the muse in glory. 



Well, figure to your senses straight, 

Upon the house's topmost height, 

A closet, just six feet by four, 

With white-wash'd walls and plaster floor, 

So noble large, 'tis scarcely able 

To admit a single chair and table : 

And (lest the muse should die with cold) 

A smoky grate my fire to hold : 

So wondrous small, 'twould much it pose 

To mdt the ice-drop on one's nose ; 

And yet so big, it covers o'er 

Full half the spacious room and more. 



EARLY PRIMHOSS. 19 

And skeletons of laws which shoot 

All out of one primordial root ; 

That you, at such a sight, would swear 

Confusion's self had settled there. 

There stands, just by a broken sphere, 

A Cicero without an ear, 

A neck, on which, by logic good, 

I know for sure a head once stood ; 

But who it was the able master 

Had moulded in the mimic plaster, 

Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn, 

1 never, yet could justly learn : 

But knowing well, that any head 

Is made to answer for the dead, 

(And sculptors first their faces frame, 

And after pitch upon a name, 

Nor think it aught of a misnomer 

To christen Chaucer's busto Homer, [know, 

Because they both have beards, which, you 

Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,) 

For some great man, I could not tell 

But Neck might answer just as well, 

So perch'd it up, all in a row 

With Chatham and with Cicero. 



A window vainly stufl'd about, 
To keep November's breezes out, 
So crazy, that the panes proclaim, 
That soon they mean to leave the frame. 

My furniture I sure may crack — 

A broken chair without a back ; 

A table wanting just two legs, 

One end sustain'd by wooden pegs ; 

A desk — of that I am not fervent, 

The work of, Sir, your humble servant ; 

(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler ;) 

A glass decanter and a tumbler, 

From which my night-parch'd throat I lave, 

Luxurious, with the limpid wave. 

A chest of drawers, in antique sections, 

And saw'd by me in all directions ; 

So small, Sir, that whoever views 'em 

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. 

To these, if you will add a store 

Of oddities upon the floor, 

A pair of globes, electric balls, 

Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, 

And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, 

Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves ; 

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog, 

You'll have my earthly catalogue. 

But stay, — I nearly had left out 

My bellows destitute of snout; 

And on the walls,— Good Heavens ! why there 

I've such a load of precious ware, 

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, 

And organ works, and broken pedals ; 

(For I was once a-building music, 

Though soon of that employ I grew sick ;) 



Then all around in just degree, 
A range of portraits you may see, 
Of mighty men and eke of women, 
Who are no whit inferior to men. 

With these fair dames, and heroes round, 

I call my garret classic ground. 

For though confined, 'twill well contain 

The ideal flights of Madam Brain. 

No dungeon's walls, no cell confined, 

Can cramp the energies of mind ! 

Thus, though my heart may seem so small, 

I've friends, and 'twill contain them all ; 

And should it e'er become so cold 

That these it will no longer hold, 

No more may Heaven her blessings give, 

I shall not then be fit to live. 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire I 
Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 

Was nursed in whirling storms, 

And cradled in the winds. 

Thee when young Spring first questional Win- 
ter's sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, 

Thee on this bank he threw * 

To mark his victory. 

In this low vale, the promise of the year, 
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 



20 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the f While every bleaching breeze that on her 



storms 
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 
Of life she rears her head, 
Obscure and unobserved ; 



blows, 
Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 
And hardens her to bear 
Serene the ills of life. 



BAStRnVBc 



SONNET I. 

To the Itiver Trent. Written on Recovery from Sickness. 

Once more, O Trent ! along thy pebbly 
marge 
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale, 
From the close sick-room newly let at large, 
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant 
O ! to his ear how musical the tale [gale. 
Which fills with joy the throstle's little 
throat ! [sail, 

And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze 

How wildly novel on his senses float ! 
It was on this that many a sleepless night, 
As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly 
gleam, 
A nd at his casement heard, with wild affright, 
The owl's dull wing and melancholy 
scream, [sire, 

On this he thought, this, this his sole de- 
Thus once again to hear the warbling wood- 
land choir. 



SONNET II. 

Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild, 

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, 
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled, 

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. 
While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, 

List to the mountain-torrent's distant noise, 
Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note, 

1 shall not want the world's delusive joys ; 
But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre, 

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet 
more; 
And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, 

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, 
And lay me down to rest where the wild wave 
Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave. 



SONNET III.* 

Supposed to have been addressed by a female lunatic to 
a Lady. 

Lady, thou weepest for the Maniac's wo, 
And thou art fair, and thou, like me, art 
young ; 
Oh ! may thy bosom never, never know 
The pangs with which my wretched heart 
is wrung. 
I had a mother once — a brother too — 
' (Beneath yon yew my father rests his head :) 
I had a lover once, — and kind, and true, 

But mother, brother, lover, all are fled ! 
Yet, whence the tear which dims thy lovely 
eye ? 
Oh ! gentle lady — not for me thus weep, 
The green sod soon upon my breast will lie, 
And soft and sound will be my peaceful 
sleep. 
Go thou and pluck the roses while they 
bloom — 
My hopes lie buried in the silent tomb. 



SONNET IV. 

Supposed to be written by the unhappy Poet Dermody, in 
a Storm, while on board a Ship in his Majesty's 
Service. 

Lo ! o'er the welkin the tempestuous clouds 
Successive fly, and the loud-piping wind 

Rocks the poor sea-boy on the dripping 
shrouds, 
While the pale pilot, o'er the helm reclined 

Lists to the changeful storm : and as he plies 
His wakeful task, he oft bethinks him sad, 
Of wife and little home, and chubby lad, 

And the half-strangled tear bedews his eyes ; 

* This Quatorzain had its rise from an elegant Sonnet, 
" occasioned by seeing a young Female Lunatic," written 
by Mrs. Lofit, and published in the Monthly Mirror. 



SONNETS. 



21 



I, on the deck, musing on themes forlorn, 
View the drear tempest, and the yawning 
deep, [sleep, 

Nought dreading in the green sea's caves to 
For not for me shall wife or children mourn, 
And the wild winds will ring my funeral knell 
Sweetly, as solemn peal of pious passing-bell. 



SONNET V. 

THE WINTER TRAVELLER 

God help thee, Traveller, on thy journey far ; 
The wind is bitter keen, — the snow o'erlays 
The hidden pits, and dangerous hollow 
ways, 
And darkness will involve thee. — No kind star 
To-night will guide thee, Traveller,— and the 
war [break, 

Of winds and elements on thy head will 
And in thy agonizing ear the shriek 
Of spirits howling on their stormy car, 
Will often ring appalling — I portend 
A dismal night — and on my wakeful bed 
Thoughts, Traveller, of thee will fill my 
head, [contend, 

And him who rides where winds and waves 
And strives, rude cradled on the seas, to 

guide 
His lonely bark through the tempestuous tide. 



SONNET VI. 

BY CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

rhis Sonnet was addressed to the Author of this Volume, 
and was occasioned by several little Quatorzains, mis- 
nomered Sonnets, which he published in the Monthly 
Mirror. He begs leave to return his thanks to the much 
respected writer, for the permission so politely granted 
to insert it here, and for the good opinion he has been 
pleased to express of his productions. 

Ye, whose aspirings court the muse of lays, 
" Severest of those orders which belong, 
Distinct and separate, to Delphic song," 

Why shun the Sonnet's undulating maze ? 

And why its name, boast of Petrarchian days, 
Assume, its rules disown'd 1 whom from the 
throng 

The muse selects, their ear the charm obeys 
Of its full harmony : — they fear to wrong 

The Sonnet, by adorning with a name 

Of that distinguish'd import, lays, though 

sweet, 
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet 
Of that so varied and peculiar frame. 
O think ! to vindicate its genuine praise 

Those it beseems, whose Lyre a favouring im- 
pulse sways. 



SONNET VII. 
Recantatory, in reply to the foregoing elegant Admonition. 

Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night, 
Rides on the raven pennons of the storm, 
Or o'er the field, with purple havoc warm, 
Lashes her steeds, and sings along the fight, 
Let her, whom more ferocious strains delight, 
Disdain the plaintive Sonnet's little form, 
And scorn to its wild cadence to conform 
The impetuous tenor of her hardy flight. 
But me, far lowest of the sylvan train, 
Who wake the wood-nymphs from the forest 

shade 
With wildest song; — Me, much behoves 
thy aid 
Of mingled melody, to grace my strain, 
And give it power to please, as soft it flows 
Through the smooth murmurs of thy frequent 
close. 



SONNET VIII. 

On hearing the Sounds of an JEolian Harp. 

So ravishingly soft upon the tide 
Of the infuriate gust, it did career, 
It might have sooth'd its rugged charioteer, 
And swik him to a zephyr ; — then it died, 
Melting in melody ; — and I descried, 
Borne to some wizard stream, the form ap- 
pear 
Of druid sage, who on the far-off ear 
Pour'd his lone song, to which the surge re- 
plied : 
Or thought I heard the hapless pilgrim's knell, 
Lost in some wild enchanted forest's bounds, 
By unseen beings sung ; or are these sounds 
Such, as 'tis said, at night are known to swell 
By startled shepherd on the lonely heath, 
Keeping his night-watch sad portending 
death ? 



SONNET IX. 

What art thou, Mighty One ! and where thy 
seat? [lands, 

Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the 
And thou dost bear within thine awful 
hands 
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet, 
Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and 
wind, 
Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's 

dead noon, 
Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon, 
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. 



22 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



In "the drear silence of the polar span 
Dost thou repose ? or in the solitude 

Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan 

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? 

Vain thought ! the confines of his throne to 
trace, [space. 

Who glows through all the fields of boundless 



A BALLAD. 

Be hush'd, be hush'd, ye bitter winds, 

Ye pelting rains a little rest : 
Lie still, lie still, ye busy thoughts, 

That wring with grief my aching breast. 

Oh! cruel was my faithless lore, 
To triumph o'er an artless maid ; 

Oh ! cruel was my faithless love, 
To leave the breast by him betray'd. 

When exiled from my native home, 
He should have wiped the bitter tear ; 

Nor left me faint and lone to roam, 
A heart-sick weary wanderer here. 

My child moans sadly in my arms, 
The winds they will not let it sleep : 

Ah, little knows the hapless babe 

What makes its wretched mother weep 

Now lie thee still, my infant dear, 

I cannot bear thy sobs to see, 
Harsh is thy father, little one, 

And never will he shelter thee. 

Oh, that I were but in my grave, 
And winds were piping o'er me loud, 



And thou, my poor, my orphan babe, 
Were nestling in thy mother's shroud 



THE LULLABY. 

OF A FEMALE CONVICT TO HER CHILD, THE 
NIGHT PREVIOUS TO EXECUTION. 

Sleep, baby mine,* enkerchieft on my boson), 

Thy cries they pierce again my bleeding 

breast ; [mother 

Sleep, baby mine, not long thoirTt have a 
To lull thee fondly in her arms to rest. 

Baby, why dost thou keep this sad complain- 
ing, [fled ; 
Long from mine eyes have kindly slumbers 
Hush, hush, my babe, the night is quickly 
waning, 
And I would fain compose my aching head. 

Poor wayward wretch ! and who will heed thy 
weeping, 
When soon an outcast on the world thou 'It be : 
Who then will soothe thee, when thy mother's 
sleeping 
In her low grave of shame and infamy J 

Sleep, baby mine— To-morrow I must leave 
thee, 
And I would snatch an interval of rest : 
Sleep these last moments, ere the laws bereave 
thee, 
For never more thou'lt press a mother's 
breast. 



POEMS, 



WRITTEN DURING, OR SHORTLY AFTER, THE PUBLICATION OF 

CLIFTON GROVE. 



ODE, 

ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A. 

On seeing Engravings from his Designs. 

Mighty magician ! who on Torneo's brow, 
When sullen tempests wrap the throne of 

night, 
Art wont to sit and catch the gleam oflight, 

That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; 



And listen to the distant death-shriek long 

From lonely mariner foundering in the 
deep, 

Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, 
While the weird sisters weave the horrid song : 

Or when along the liquid sky 

Serenely chant the orbs on high, 

* Sir Philip Sidney has a poem beginning, « Sk^p, 
Babv mine." 



ODES. 



23 



Dost love to sit in musing trance, 
And mark the northern meteor's dance, 
( While far below the fitful oar 
Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) 
And list the music of the breeze, 
That sweeps by fits the bending seas ; 
And often bears with sudden swell 
The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, 
By the spirits sung, who keep 
Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, 
And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye 
To Helice in northern sky : 
And there upon the rock inclined 
With mighty visions fill'st the mind, 
Such as bound in magic spell 
Him * who grasp'd the gates of Hell, 
And bursting Pluto's dark domain, 
Held to the day the terrors of his reign. 

Genius of Horror and romantic awe, 
Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, 
Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep. 

Can force the inmost soul to own its law ; 
Who shall now, sublimest spirit, 
Who shall now thy wand inherit, 
From him t thy darling child who best 
Thy shuddering images express'd ? 
Sullen of soul, and stern and proud, 
His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd, 
And now he lays his aching head 

In the dark mansion of the silent dead. 

Mighty magician ! long thy wand has lain 
Buried beneath the unfathomable deep ; 
And oh ! for ever must its efforts sleep, 

May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain ? 
Oh yes, 'tis his ! — Thy other son ; 
He throws thy dark-wrought tunic on, 
Fuesslin waves thy wand, — again they rise, 
Again thy wildering forms salute our rav- 
ish'd eyes, 

Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep 
Where round his head the volley'd lightnings 
Aung, [rung, 

And the loud winds that round his pillow 

Wooed the stern infant to the arms of sleep 
Or on the highest top of TenerifFe 

Seated the fearless boy, and bade him look 
Where far below the weather-beaten skiff 

On the gulf bottom of the ocean strook. 

Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear 
The death-sob, and, disdaining rest, 

Thou saw'st how danger fired his breast, 

And in his young hand couch'd the visionary 
spear. 
Then, Superstition, at thy call, 
She bore the boy to Odin's Hall, 
And set before his awe-struck sight 
The sarage feast and spectred fight ; 
* Dant «- t Ibid. 



And summon'd from his mountain tomb 
The ghastly warrior son of gloon\ 
His fabled Runic rhymes to sing, 
While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing ; 
Thou show'dst the trains the shepherd sees, 
Laid on the stormy Hebrides, 
Which on the mists of evening gleam, 
Or crowd the foaming desert stream ; 
Lastly her storied hand she waves, 
And lays him in Florentian caves ; 
There milder fables, lovelier themes, 
Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams, 
There Pity's lute arrests his ear, 
And draws the half-reluctant tear ; 
And now at noon of night he roves 
Along the embowering moonlight groves, 
And as from many a cavern'd dell 
The hollow wind is heard to swell, 
He thinks some troubled spirit sighs ; 
And as upon the turf he lies, 
Where sleeps the silent beam of night, 
He sees below the gliding sprite, 
And hears in Fancy's organs sound 
Aerial music warbling round. 

Taste lastly comes and smoothes the whole, 
And breathes her polish o'er his soul ; 
Glowing with wild, yet chasten'd heat, 
The wonderous work is now complete. 

The Poet dreams :— The shadow flies, 
And fainting fast its image dies. 
But lo ! the Painter's magic force 
Arrests the phantom's fleeting course ; 
It lives— it lives — the canvass glows, 
And tenfold vigour o'er it flows. 

The Bard beholds the work achieved, 
And as he sees the shadow rise, 
Sublime before his wondering eyes, 

Starts at the image his own mind conceived. 



ODE, 

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K, G. 
Retired, remote from human noise, 

A humble Poet dwelt serene ; 
His lot was lowly, yet his joys 

Were manifold, I ween. 
He laid him by the brawling brook 
At eventide to ruminate, 

He watch'd the swallow skimming round, 
And mused, in reverie profound, 
On wayward man's unhappy state, 
And ponder'd much, and paused on deeds of 
ancient date. 

II. 1. 
" Oh, 'twas not always thus," he cried, 

" There was a time, when Genius claimed 
Respect from even towering Pride, 
Nor hung her head ashamed : 



24 H. K. 

But now to Wealth alone we bow, 

The titled and the rich alone 
Are honour'd, while meek Merit pines, 
On Penury's wretched couch reclines, 
Unheeded in his dying moan, 
As overwhelm'd with want and wo, he sinks 
unknown. 



WHITE'S POEMS. 

I While all around remain'd in custom'd night. 
Still leaden Ignorance reigns serene, 
In the false court's delusive height, 
And only one Carlisle is seen, 
To illume the heavy gloom with pure and 
steady light. 



III. 1. 

" Yet was the muse not always seen 
In Poverty's dejected mien, 
Not always did repining rue, 
And misery her steps pursue. 
Time was, when nobles thought their titles 
graced, 
By the sweet honours of poetic bays, 
When Sidney sung his melting song, 
When Sheffield joined the harmonious 
throng, 
And Lyttleton attuned to love his lays. 
Those days are gone — alas, for ever gone ! 

No more our nobles love to grace 
Their brows with anadems, by genius won, 
But arrogantly deem the muse as base ; 
How different thought the sires of this degen- 
erate race I" 

I. 2. 

Thus sang the minstrel : — still at eve 
The upland's woody shades among 
In broken measures did he grieve, 
With solitary song. 
And still his shame was aye the same, 

Neglect had stung him to the core ; 
And he with pensive joy did love 
To seek the still congenial grove, 
And muse on all his sorrows o'er, 
And vow that he would join the abjured world 
no more. 

II. 2. 

But human vows, how frail they be ! 

Fame brought Carlisle unto his view, 
And all amazed, he thought to see 
The Augustan age anew. 
Fill'd with wild rapture, up he rose, 
No more he ponders on the woes, 
Which erst he felt that forward goes, 
Regrets he'd sunk in impotence, 
And hails the ideal day of virtuous eminence. 

III. 2. 

Ah ! silly man, yet smarting sore, 
With ills which in the world he bore, 
Again on futile hope to rest, 
An unsubstantial prop at best, 
And not to know one swallow makes no sum- 
mer ! 

Ah ! soon he'll find the brilliant gleam, 
Which flashed across the hemisphere, 
Illumining the darkness there, 

Was but a single solitary beam, 



DESCRIPTION OF A SUMMER'S EVE. 

Down the sultry arc of day 

The burning wheels have urged their way, 

And eve along the western skies 

Spreads her intermingling dyes. 

Down the deep, the miry lane, 

Creeking comes the empty wain, 

And driver on the shaft-horse sits, 

Whistling now and then by fits ; 

And oft with his accustom'd call, 

Urging on the sluggish Ball. 

The barn is still, the master's gone, 

And thresher puts his jacket on, 

While Dick, upon the ladder tall, 

Nails the dead kite to the wall. 

Here comes shepherd Jack at last, 

He has penn'd the sheep-cote fast, 

For 'twas but two nights before, 

A lamb was eaten on the moor: 

His empty wallet Rover carries, 

Now for Jack, when near home, tarries. 

With lolling tongue he runs to try, 

If the horse-trough be not dry. 

The milk is settled in the pans, 

And supper messes in the cans ; 

In the hovel carts are wheel'd, 

And both the ct>lts are drove a-field ; 

The horses are all bedded up, 

And the ewe is with the tup, 

The snare for Mister Fox is set, 

The leaven laid, the thatching wet, 

And Bess has slink'd away to talk 

With Roger in the holly- walk. 

Now, on the settle all, but Bess, 
Are set to eat their supper mess ; 
And little Tom and roguish Kate, 
Are swinging on the meadow gate. 
Now they chat of various things, 
Of taxes, ministers, and kings, 
Or else tell all the village news, 
How madam did the squire refuse ; 
How parson on his tithes was bent, 
And landlord oft distrained for rent. 
Thus do they talk, till in the sky 
The pale-eyed moon is mounted high, 
And from the alehouse drunken Ned 
Had reel'd — then hasten all to bed. 
The mistress sees that lazy Kate 
The happing coal on kitchen grate 



TO CONTEMPLATION, 



g 5 



Has laid — while master goes throughout, 
Sees shutters fast, the mastiff out, 
The candles safe, the hearths all clear, 
And nought from thieves or fire to fear ; 
Then both to bed together creep, 
And join the general troop of sleep. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 

Come pensive sage, who lov'st to dwell 
In some retired Lapponian cell, 
Where, far from noise and riot rude, 
Resides sequester'd Solitude. 
Come, and o'er my longing soul 
Throw thy dark and russet stole, 
And open to my duteous eyes, 
The volume of thy mysteries. 

I will meet thee on the hill, 

Where, with printless footsteps still 

The morning in her buskin gray, 

Springs upon her eastern way ; 

While the frolic zephyrs stir, 

Playing with the gossamer, 

And, on ruder pinions borne, 

Shake the dew-drops from the thorn. 

There, as o'er the fields we pass, 

Brushing with hasty feet the grass, 

We will startle from her nest 

The lively lark with speckled breast, 

And hear the floating clouds among 

Her gale-transported matin song, 

Or on the upland stile embower'd, 

With fragrant hawthorn snowy flower'd, 

Will sauntering sit, and listen still 

To the herdsman's oaten quill, 

Wafted from the plain below ; 

Or the heifer's frequent low ; 

Or the milkmaid in the grove, 

Singing of one that died for love. 

Or when the noontide heats oppress, 

We will seek the dark recess, 

Where, in th' embower'd translucent stream, 

The cattle shun the sultry beam, 

And o'er us on the marge reclined, 

The drowsy fly her horn shall wind, 

While Echo, from her ancient oak, 

Shall answer to the woodman's stroke ; 

Or the little peasant's song, 

Wandering lone the glens among, 

His artless lip with berries dyed, 

And feet through ragged shoes descried. 

But oh ! when evening's virgin queen 
Sits on her fringed throne serene, 
And mingling whispers rising near, 
Still on the still reposing ear : 



While distant brooks decaying round, 

Augment the mix'd dissolving sound, 

And the zephyr flitting by, 

Whispers mystic harmony, 

We will seek the woody lane, 

By the hamlet, on the plain, 

Where the weary rustic nigh, 

Shall whistle his wild melody, 

And the croaking wicket oft 

Shall echo from the neighbouring croft ; 

And as we trace the green path lone, 

With moss and rank weeds overgrown, 

We will muse on pensive lore 

Till the full soul brimming o'er, 

Shall in our upturn'd eyes appear, 

Embodied in a quivering tear. 

Or else, serenely silent, set 

By the brawling rivulet, 

Which on its calm unruffled breast, 

Bears the old mossy arch impress'd, 

That clasps its secret stream of glass 

Half hid in shrubs and waving grass, 

The wood-nymph's lone secure retreat, 

Unpress'd by fawn or sylvan's feet, 

We'll watch in eve's ethereal braid, 

The rich vermilion slowly fade ; 

Or catch, faiat twinkling from afar, 

The first glimpse of the eastern star, 

Fair Vesper, mildest lamp of light, 

That heralds in imperial night ; 

Meanwhile, upon our wandering ear, 

Shall rise,-though low, yet sweetly clear, 

The distant sounds of pastoral lute, 

Invoking soft the sober suit 

Of dimmest darkness — fitting well 

With love, or sorrow's pensive spell, 

(So erst did music's silver tone 

Wake slumbering Chaos on his throne.) 

And haply then, with sudden swell, 

Shall roar the distant curfew bell, 

While in the castle's mouldering tower, 

The hooting owl is heard to pour 

Her melancholy song, and scare 

Dull Silence brooding in the air. 

Meanwhile her dusk and slumbering car, 

Black-suited Night drives on from far, 

And Cynthia, 'merging from her rear, 

Arrests the waxing darkness drear, 

And summons to her silent call, 

Sweeping, in their airy pall, 

The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, 

To join her moonshine morrice-dance ; 

While around the mystic ring 

The shadowy shapes elastic spring, 

Then with a passing shriek they fly, 

Wrapt in mists, along the sky, 

And oft are by the shepherd seen, 

In his lone night-watch on the green. 

Then, hermit, let us turn our feet 
To the low abbey's still retreat, 
I) 



26 



K. K. WHITE'S POEMS, 



Embower'd in the distant glen, 

Far from the haunts of busy men, 

Where, as we sit upon the tomb, 

The glow-worm's light may gild the gloom, 

And show to Fancy's saddest eye^ 

Where some lost hero's ashes lie. 

And oh, as through the mouldering arch, 

With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, 

The night-gale whispers sadly clear, 

Speaking drear things to Fancy's ear, 

We'll hold communion with the shade 

Of some deep-wailing, ruin'd maid — 

Or call the ghost of Spenser down, 

To tell of wo and Fortune's frown ; 

And bid us cast the eye of hope 

Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 

Or if these joys, to us denied, 

To linger by the forest's side ; 

Or in the meadow, or the wood, 

Or by the lone, romantic flood ; 

Let us in the busy town, 

When sleep's dull streams the people drown, 

Far from drowsy pillows flee, 

And turn the church's massy key ; 

Then, as through the painted glass 

The moon's faint beams obscurely pass ; 

And darkly on the trophied wall, 

Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall ; 

Let us, while the faint winds wail, 

Through the long reluctant aisle, 

As we pace with reverence meet, 

Count the echoings of our feet ; 

W'hile from the tombs, with confess'd breath, 

Distinct responds the voice of death. 

If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend, 

Thus on my footsteps to attend, 

To thee my lonely lamp shall burn 

By fallen Genius' sainted urn 

As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, 

And sagely spell of ancient lore, 

Till I can rightly guess of all 

That Plato could' to memory call, 

And scan the formless views of things, 

Or with old Eygpt's fetter'd kings, 

Arrange the mystic trains that shine 

In night's high philosophic mine ; 

And to thy name shall e'er belong 

The honours of undying song. 



ODE 

TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE. 

Oh ! thou who, in my early youth, 
When fancy wore the garb of truth, 
Were wont to win my infant feet, 
To some retired, deep-fabled seat, 
Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, 
The midnight ghost was known to glide ; 



Or lay me in some lonely glade, 

In native Sherwood's forest shade, 

Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, 

Was wont his sylvan courts to hold ; 

And there, as musing deep I lay, 

Would steal my little soul away, 

And all thy pictures represent, 

Of siege and solemn tournament; 

Or bear me to the magic scene, 

Where, clad in greaves and gaberdine, 

The warrior knight of chivalry 

Made many a fierce enchanter flee ; 

And bore the high-borne dame away, 

Long held the fell magician's prey ; 

Or oft would tell the shuddering tale 

Of murders, and of goblins pale, 

Haunting the guilty baron's side, 

(Whose floors with secret blood were dyed,) 

Which o'er the vaulted corridore, 

On stormy nights was heard to roar, 

By old domestic, waken'd wide 

By the angry winds that chide ; 

Or else the mystic tale would tell, 

Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. 



THE SAVOYARD'S RETURN. 



I. 



Oh ! yonder is the well-known spot, 

My dear, my long-lost native home ! 
Oh ! welcome is yon little cot, 

Where I shall rest, no more to roam ! 
Oh ! I have travelled far and wide, 

O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 

And sung and danced my saraband. 
But all their charms could not prevail 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 

II. 

Of distant climes the false report 
It lured me from my native land ; 
It bade me rove — my sole support 
My cymbals and my saraband. 

The woody dell, the hanging rock, 
The chamois skipping o'er the heights ; 

The plain adorn'd with many a flock, 
And, oh ! a thousand more delights, 
That grace yon dear beloved retreat, 
Have backward w on my weary feet. 

III. 

Now safe return'd, with wandering tired, 
No more my little home I'll leave ; 



IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



27 



And many a tale of what I've seen 

Shall while away the winter's eve. 
Oh ! I have wander'd far and wide, 
O'er many a distant foreign land ; 
Each place, each province I have tried, 
And sung and danced my saraband ; 
But all their charms could not prevail, 
To steal my heart from yonder vale. 



LINES 

Written impromptu, on reading the following passage in 
Mr. Capel Lofft's beautiful and interesting Preface to 
Nathaniel Bloomfield's Poems, just published — " It has 
a mixture of the sportive, which deepens the impression 
of its melancholy close . I could have wished as I have 
said in a short note, the conclusion had been otherwise. 
The sours of life less offend my taste than its sweets de- 
light it." 

Go to the raging sea, and say, " Be still !" 
Bid the wild lawless winds obey thy will ; 
Preach to the storm, and reason with Despair, 
But tell not Misery's son that life is fair. 

Thou, who in Plenty's lavish lap hast roll'd, 
And every year with new delight hast told, 
Thou, who recumbent on the lacquer'd barge, 
Hast dropt down joy's gay stream of pleasant 

marge, 
Thou may'st extol life's calm, untroubled sea, 
The storms of misery never burst on thee. 

Go to the mat, where squalid Want reclines, 
Go to the shade obscure, where Merit pines ; 
Abide with him whom Penury's charms con- 
trol, 
And bind the rising yearnings of his soul, 
Survey his sleepless couch, and standing there, 
Tell the poor pallid wretch that life is fair ! 

Press thou the lonely pillow of his head, 
And ask why sleep his languid eyes has fled ; 
Mark his dew'd temples, and his half-shut eye, 
His trembling nostrils, and his deep-drawn 

sigh, 
His muttering mouth contorted with despair, 
And ask if Genius could inhabit there. 

Oh, yes ! that sunken eye with fire once 

gleam'd, 
And rays of light from its full circlet stream'd ; 
But now Neglect has stung him to the core, 
And Hope's wild raptures thrill his breast no 

more ; 
Domestic Anguish winds his vitals round. 
And added Grief compels him to the ground. 
Lo! o'er his manly form, decay'd and wan. 
The shades of death with gradual steps steal 

on : 



And the pale mother, pining to decay, 
Weeps for her boy her wretched life away. 

Go, child of Fortune ! to his early grave, 
Where o'er his head obscure the rank w e«< 

wave ; 
Behold the heart-wrung parent lay her head 
On the cold turf, and ask to share his bed. 
Go, child of Fortune, take thy lesson there, 
And tell us then that life is wondrous fair I 

Yet, Lofft, in thee, whose hand is still stretch'd 

forth, 
T' encourage genius, and to foster worth ; 
On thee, the unhappy's firm, unfailing friend, 
'Tis just that every blessing should descend ; 
Tis just that life to thee should only show 
Her fairer side but little mix'd with wo. 



WRITTEN 
IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH 

Sad solitary Thought, who keep'st thy vigils, 
Thy solemn vigils, in the sick man's mind ; 
Communing lonely with his sinking soul, 
And musing on the dubious glooms that lie 
In dim obscurity before him, — thee, 
Wrapt in thy dark magnificence, I call 
At this still midnight hour, this awful season 
When on my bed, in wakeful restlessness, 
I turn me wearisome ; while all around, 
All, all, save me, sink in forgetfulness ; 
I only wake to watch the sickly taper 
Which lights me to my tomb. — Yea 'tis the 

hand 
Of Death I feel press heavy on my vitals, 
Slow sapping the warm current of existence. 
My moments now are few — the sand of life 
Ebbs fastly to its finish. — Yet a little, 
And the last fleeting particle will fall, 
Silent, unseen, unnoticed, unlamented. 
Come then, sad Thought, and let us meditate 
While meditate we may. — We have now 
But a small portion of what men call time 
To hold communion ; for even now the knife, 
The separating knife, I feel divide 
The tender bond that binds my soul to earth. 
Yes, I must die — I feel that I must die ; 
And though to me has life been dark and 

dreary, 
Though Hope for me has smiled but to deceive, 
And Disappointment still pursued her bland- 
ishments, 
Yet do I feel my soul recoil within me 
As I contemplate the dim gulf of death, 
The shuddering void, the awful blank — fu- 
turity. 
Ay, 1 had plann'd full many a sanguine scheme 
Of earthly happiness — romantic schemes, 



H. K. WHITE'S P6EMS. 



And fraught with loveliness ; and it is hard 
To feel the hand of Death arrest one's steps, 
Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding 

hopes, 
And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, 
Lost in the gaping gulf of blank oblivion. 
Fifty years hence, and who will hear of Henry 1 
Oh ! none ; — another busy brood of beings 
Will shoot up in the interim, and none 
Will hold him in remembrance. 1 shall sink, 
As sinks a stranger in the crowded streets 
Of busy London : — Some short bustle's caused, 
A few enquiries, and the crowds close in, 
And all's forgotten. — On my grassy grave 
The men of future times will careless tread, 
And read my name upon the sculptured stone ; 
Nor will the sound, familiar to their ears, 
Recall my vanish'd memory. — I did hope 
For better things ! — I hoped I should not leave 
The earth without a vestige ; — Fate decrees 
It shall be otherwise, and I submit. 
Henceforth, oh, world, no more of thy desires ! 
No more of hope J the wanton vagrant Hope ! 
I abjure all — Now other cares engross me, 
And my tired soul, with emulative haste, 
Looks' to its God, and prunes its wings for 

Heaven. 



PASTORAL SONG. 

Come, Anna ! come, the morning dawns, 

Faint streaks of radiance tinge ihe skies : 
Come, let us seek the dewy lawns, 
And watch the early lark arise ; 
While Nature, clad in vesture gay, 
Hails the loved return of day, 

Our flocks, that nip the scanty blade 
Upon the moor, shall seek the vale ; 
And then, secure beneath the shade, 
We'll listen to the throstle's tale ; 
And watch the silver clouds above, 
As o'er the azure vault they rove. 

Come, Anna ! come, and bring thy lute, 

That with its tones, so softly sweet, 
In cadence with my mellow flute, 
We may beguile the noontide heat ; 
While near the mellow bee shall join, 
To raise a harmony divine. 

And then at eve, when silence reigns, 

Except when heard the beetle's hum, 
We'll leave the sober-tinted plains, 
To these sweet heights again we'll come ; 
And thou to thy soft lute shalt play 
A solemn vesper to departing day. 



VERSES. 



When pride and envy, and the scorn 

Of wealth, my heart with gall embued, 
I thought how pleasant were the morn 

Of silence, in the solitude ; 
To hear the forest bee On wing, 
Or by the stream, or woodland spring, 
To lie and muse alone — alone, 
While the tinkling waters moan, 
Or such wild sounds arise, as say, 
Man and noise are far away. 

Now, surely, thought I, there's enow 

To fill life's dusty way ; 
And who will miss a poet's feet, 

Or wonder where he stray : 
So to the woods and waste I'll go, 

And I will build an osier bower ; 
And sweetly there to me shall flow 

The meditative hour. 

And when the Autumn's withering hand 
Shall strew with leaves the sylvan land, 
I'll to the forest caverns hie : 
And in the dark and stormy nights 
I'll listen to the shrieking sprites, 
Who, in the wintry wolds and floods, 
Keep jubilee, and shred the woods ; 
Or, as it drifted soft and slow, 
Hurl in ten thousand shapes the snow. 



EPIGRAM 

ON 

ROBERT BLOOMF1ELD. 

Bloomfield, thy happy-omen'd name 
Ensures continuance to thy fame ; 
Both sense and truth this verdict give, 
While fields shall bloom, thy name shall live f 



ODE TO MIDNIGHT. 

Season of general rest, whose solemn still, 
Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, 

But speaks to philosophic souls delight, 
Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, 
My candle waning melancholy by, 

I sit and taste the holy calm of night. 

Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, 
And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, 
Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame, 



ODES. 



29 



To her, while all around in sleep recline, 
Wakeful 1 raise my orisons divine, 
Andsin^ the gentle honours of her name ; 

While Fancy lone o'er me her votary bends, 
To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, 

And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, 
And Superstition's gentle terrors come, 
See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the 
gloom ! 
See round yon church-yard elm what Spec- 
tres throng ! 

Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, 
My flagelet — and, as I pensive play, 

The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene : 
The traveller late journeying o'er the moors 
Hears them aghast, — (while still the dull owl 
pours [tween,) 

Her hollow screams each dreary pause be- 

Till in the lonely tower he spies the light 
Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, 

Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, 
And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, 
Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, 

And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and 
weep. 



ODE TO THOUGHT. 



WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 



I. 

Hence away, vindictive Thought ! 

Thy pictures are of pain ; 
The visions through thy dark eye caught, 
They with no gentle charms are fraught, 
So pr'ythee back again. 
I would not weep, 

I wish to sleep, [keep ? 

Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils 
II. 

Why dost o'er bed and couch recline ? 

Is this thy new delight ? 
Pale visitant, it is not thine 
To keep thy sentry through the mine, 
The dark vault of the night : 
'Tis thine to die, 
While o'er the eye 
Th e dews of slumber press, and waking sor- 



And as reclining on his helm, 
Sadly he marks the starry realm, 
To him thou may'st bring ease ; 
But thou to me 
Art misery, 
So pr'ythee, pr'ythee, plume thy wings, and 
from my pillow flee. 

IV. 

And, Memory, pray what art thou ? 

Art thou of pleasure born ? 
Does bliss untainted from thee flow ? 
The rose that gems thy pensive brow, 
Is it without a thorn ? 
With all thy smiles, 
And witching wiles, 
Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful 
sway defiles. 

V. 

The drowsy night-watch has forgot 

To call the solemn hour ; 
Lull'd by the winds he slumbers deep, 
While I in vain, capricious Sleep, 
Invoke thy tardy power ; 
And restless lie, 
With unclosed eye, 
And count the tedious hours as slow they 
minute by. 



rows fly. 



III. 



Go thou, and bide with him who guides 
His bark through lonely seas ; 



GENIUS. 

AN OUE. 

1. 1. 

Many there be, who, through the vale of life, 

With velvet pace, unnoticed, softly go, 
While jarring Discord's inharmonious strife 

Awakes them not to wo. 
By them unheeded, carking Care, 
Green-eyed Grief, and dull Despair; 
Smoothly they pursue their way, 

With even tenor and with equal breath, 
Alike through cloudy and through sunny day, 

Then sink in peace to death. 

II. 1. 

But, ah ! a few there be whom griefs devour, 
And weeping Wo, and Disappointment 
keen, 
Repining Penury, and Sorrow sour, 
And self-coniuming Spleen. 
And these are Genius' favourites : these 
Know the thought- throned mind to please, 
And from her fleshy seat to draw 

To realms where Fancy's golden orbits 
roll, 
Disdaining all but 'wildering Rapture's law, 
The captivated soul. 



30 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



III. 1. 



Genius, from thy starry throne, 
High above the burning zone, 
In radiant robe of light array'd, 
Oh ! hear the plaint by thy sad favourite made, 

His melancholy moan. 
He tells of scorn, he tells of broken vows, 

Of sleepless nights, of anguish-ridden 
days, 
Pangs that his sensibility uprouse 

To curse his being and his thirst for 
praise. 
Thou gav'st to him with treble force to feel 

The sting of keen neglect, the rich man's 
scorn ; 
And what o'er all does in his soul preside 
Predominant, and tempers him to steel, 
His high indignant pride. 

I. 2. 

Lament not ye, who humbly steal through life, 

That Genius visits not your lowly shed ; 
For, ah, what woes and sorrows ever rife 
Distract his hapless head ! 
For him awaits no balmy sleep, 
He wakes all night, and wakes to weep ; 
Or by his lonely lamp he sits 

At solemn midnight when the peasant 
sleeps, 
In feverish study, and in moody fits 
His mournful vigils keeps. 

II. 2. 

And, oh ! for what consumes his watchful oil ? 
For what does thus he waste life's fleeting 
breath ? 
'Tis for neglect and penury he doth toil, 
'Tis for untimely death. 
Lo ! where dejected pale he lies, 
Despair depicted in his eyes, 
Ke feels the vital flame decrease, [P re y> 

He sees the grave wide-yawning for its 
Without a friend to soothe his soul to peace, 
And cheer the expiring ray. 

III. 2. 

By Sulmo's bard of mournful fame, 
By gentle Otway's magic name, 
By him, the youth, who smiled at death, 
And rashly dared to stop his vital breath, 

Will I thy pangs proclaim ; 
For still to misery closely thou'rt allied, 
Though gaudy pageants glitter by thy side, 

And far-resounding Fame. 
What though to thee the dazzled millions 

bow, 

And to thy posthumous merit bend them low ; 

Though unto thee the monarch looks with 

awe, [draw, 

And thou at thy flash'd car dost nations 



Yet, ah ! unseen behind thee fly 

Corroding Auguish, soul-subduing Pain, 
And Discontent that clouds the fairest sky : 
A melancholy train. 
Yes, Genius, thee a thousand cares await. 
Mocking thy derided state ; 
Thee chill Adversity will still attend, 
Before whose face flies fast the summer's 
frieud, 

And leaves thee all forlorn ; 
While leaden Ignorance rears her head and 
laughs, 
And fat Stupidity shakes his jolly sides, 
And while the cup of affluence he quaffs 
With bee-eyed Wisdom, Genius derides, 
Who toils, and every hardship doth outbrave, 
To gain the meed of praise, when he is mould- 
ering in his grave. 



FRAGMENT 



ODE TO THE 



OF AN 
MOON. 

I. 

Mild orb, who floatest through the realm of 
night, 
A pathless wanderer o'er a lonely wild, 
Welcome to me thy soft and pensive light, 
Which oft in childhood my lone thoughts 
beguiled. 
Now doubly dear as o'er my silent seat, 
Nocturnal Study's still retreat, 
It casts a mournful melancholy gleam, 
And through my lofty casement weaves, 
Dim through the vine's encircling leaves, 
An intermingled beam. 

II. 

These feverish dews that on my temples hang, 

This quivering lip, these eyes of dying flame: 
These the dread signs of many a secret pang, 

These are the meed of him who pants for 
fame ! 
Pale Moon, from thoughts like these divert 
my soul ; 

Lowly I kneel before thy shrine on high ; 
My lamp expires ;— beneath thy mild control , 

These restless dreams are ever wont to fly. 

Come, kindred mourner, in my breast 
Soothe these discordant tones to rest, 

And breathe the soul of peace ; 
Mild visitor, I feel thee here, 
It is not pain that brings this tear, 

For thou hast bid it cease. 

Oh ! many a year has pass'd away 
Since I, beneath thy fairy ray 
Attun'd my infant reed 



FRAGMENTS. 



When wilt thou, Time, those days restore, 
Those happy moments now no more — 



When on the lake's damp marge I lay, 

And mark'd the northern meteor's dance, 
Bland Hope and Fancy, ye were there 
To inspirate my trance. 
Twin sisters, faintly now ye deign 
Your magic sweets on me to shed, 
In vain your powers are now essay'd 
To chase superior pain. 

And art thou fled, thou welcome orb ? 

So swiftly pleasure flies ; 
So to mankind, in darkness lost, 

The beam of ardour dies. 
Wan Moon, thy nightly task is done, 
And now, encurtain'd in the main, 

Thou sinkest into rest ; 
But I, in vain, on thorny bed 

Shall woo the god of soft repose— 



FRAGMENT. 

Loud rage the winds without. — The wintry 
cloud [shroud ; 

O'er the cold north star casts her flitting 
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale, 
Starts as she hears, by .fits, the shrieking gale ; 
Where now, shut out from every still retreat, 
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat, 
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood, 
Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood ? 
Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance 
The drifted fleeces that around him dance, 
And hurries on his half-averted form, 
Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm. 
Him soon shall greet his snow-topt [cot of 

thatch,] 
Soon shall his 'numb'd hand tremble on the 
latch, [flame 

Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful 
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame ; 
Round the light fire, while roars the north 

wind loud, 
What merry groups of vacant faces crowd ; 
These hail his coming — these his meal prepare, 
And boast in all that cot no lurking care. 

What, though the social circle be denied, 
Even Sadness brightens at her own fire-side. 



31 
ch the ^fluttering 



Loves, with fixed eye, to 

blaze, 
While musing Memory dwells on former days ; 
Or Hope, bles-'d spirit ! smiles — and still for- 
given, Heaven. 
Forgets the passport, while she points to 
Then heap the fire — shut out the bitiDg air, 
And from its station wheel the easy chair : 
Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet 
To hear without the bitter tempest beat 
All, all alone — to sit, and muse, and sigh, 
The pensive tenant of obscurity. 



FRAGMENT. 

Oh ! thou most fatal of Pandora's train, 

Consumption ! silent cheater of the eye ; 
Thou com'st not robed in agonizing pain, 

Nor mark'st thy course with Death's delu- 
sive dye, 

But silent and unnoticed thou dost lie ; 
O'er life's soft springs thy venom dost diffuse, 

And, while thou giv'st new lustre to the eye, 
While o'er the cheek are spread health's ruddy 
hues, [dues. 

Even then life's little rest thy cruel power sub- 
Oft I've beheld thee, in the glow of youth 

Hid 'neath the blushing roses which there 
bloom'd, 
And dropp'd a tear, for then thy cankering tooth 

I knew would never stay, till all consumed, 

In the cold vault of death he were entomb'd. 
But oh ! what sorrow did I feel, as swift, 

Insidious ravager, 1 saw thee fly 
Through fair Lucina's breast of whitest snow, 

Preparing swift her passage to the sky. 
Though still intelligence beam'd in the glance, 

The liquid lustre of her fine blue eye ; 
Yet soon did languid listlessness advance, 
And soon she calmly sunk in death's repug- 
nant trance. 

Even when her end was swiftly drawing near 
And dissolution hover'd o'er her head : 

Even then so beauteous did her form appeal 
That none who saw her but admiring said, 
Sure so much beauty never could be dead. 

Yet the dark lash of her expressive eye, 

Bent lowly down upon the languid 

* » * * 



8®wkni5P8< 






TO CAPEL LOFFT, ESQ. 

Lofft, unto thee one tributary song 
The simple Muse, admiring, fain would 
bring; 
She longs to lisp thee to the listening throng, 
And with thy name to bid the woodlands 
ring. 
Fain would she blazon all thy virtues forth, 
Thy warm philanthropy, thy justice mild, 
Would say how thou didst foster kindred 
worth, [child ; 

And to thy bosom snatch'd Misfortuue's 
Firm she would paint thee, with becoming 
zeal, 
Upright, and learned, as the Pylian sire, 
Would say how sweetly thou couldst sweep 
the lyre, 
And show thy labours for the public weal. 
Ten thousand virtues tell with joys supreme, 
But ah ! she shrinks abash'd before the ar- 
duous theme. 



TO THE MOON. 

WRITTEN IN NOVEMBER. 

Sublime, emerging from the misty verge 
Of the horizon dim, thee, Moon, I hail, 
As sweeping o'er the leafless grove, the gale 

Seems to repeat the year's funereal dirge. 

Now Autumn sickens on the languid sight, 
And leaves bestrew the wanderer's lonely 

Now unto thee, pale arbitress of night, [way, 
With double joy my homage do I pay. 
When clouds disguise the glories of the day, 

And stern November sheds her boisterous 
blight, 
How doubly sweet to mark the moony ray 

Shoot through the mist from the ethereal 

height, [bring 

And, still unchanged, back to the memory 

The smiles Favonian of life's earliest spring. 



WRITTEN AT THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. 

Fast from the West the fading day-streaks fly, 
And ebon Night assumes her solemn sway, 

Yet here alone, unheeding time, I lie, [lay. 
And o'er my friend still pour the plaintive 



Oh ! 'tis not long since, George, with thee I 
woo'd 
The maid of musings by yon moaning wave, 
And hail'd the moon's mild beam, which now 
renew'd, 
Seems sweetly sleeping on thy silent grave ! 
The busy world pursues its boisterous \\ ay 

The noise of revelry still echoes round, 
Yet I am sad while all beside is gay ; 

Yet still I weep o'er thy deserted mound. 
Oh ! that, like thee, I might bid sorrow 
cease, [peace. 

And'neaththe green-sward sleep the sleep of 



TO MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune, 1 am young, my chin is bare, 

And I have wonder'd much when men have 

told, [care, 

How youth was free from sorrow and from 

That thou shouldst dwell with me, and leave 
the old. 
Sure dost not like me ! — Shrivell'd hag of hate, 

My phiz, and thanks to thee, is sadly long ; 

I am not either, Beldam, over strong ; 
Nor do I wish at all to be thy mate, 
For thou, sweet Fury, art my utter hate. 
Nay, shake not thus thy miserable pate, 
I am yet young, and do not like thy face ; 
And, lest thou shouldst resume the wild- 
goose chace, 
I'll tell thee something all thy heat to assuage, 
— Thou wilt not hit my fancy in my age. 



As thus oppress'd with mauy a heavy care, 
(Though young yet sorrowful,) I turn my feet 
To the dark woodland, longing much to greet 
The form of Peace, if chance she sojourn there ; 
Deep thought and dismal, verging to despair, 
Fills my sad breast ; and, tired with this 
vain coil, 
I shrink dismay 'd before life's upland toil. 
And as amid the leaves the evening air 
Whispers still melody, — I think ere long, 
When I no more can hear, these woods will 
speak ; 
And then a sad smile plays upon my cheek, 
And mournful phantasies upon me throng, 
And I do ponder with most stiauge delight, 
On the calm slumbers of the dead man's night. 



SONNETS. 



S5 



TO APRIL, 



Emblem of life! see changeful April sail 
In varying vest along the shadowy skies, 
Now bidding Summer's softest zeph : .rs rise, 
Anon, recalling Winter's stormy gale, 
And pouring from the cloud her sudden hail ; 
Then, smiling through the tear that dims 

her eyes, 
While Iris with her braid the welkin dyes, 
Promise of sunshine, not so prone to fail. 
So, to us, sojourners in Life's low vale, 
The smiles of Fortune flatter to deceive, 
While still the Fates the web of Misery 
weave ; 
So Hope exultant spreads her aery sail, 
And from the present gloom the soul conveys 
To distant summers and far happier days. 



TO MY MOTHER. 



Ye unseen spirits, whose wild melodies, 
At evening rising slow, yet sweetly clear, 
Steal on the musing poet's pensive ear, 

As by the wood-spring stretch'd supine he lies, 
When he who now invokes you low is laid, 

His tired frame resting on the earth's cold bed. 

Hold ye your nightly vigils o'er his head, 
And chant a dirge to his reposing shade ! 

For he was wont to love your madrigals ; 
And often by the haunted stream that laves 
The dark sequester'd woodland's inmost 
caves, 

Would sit and listen to the dying falls, 

Till the full tear would quiver in his eye, 

And his big heart would heave with mourn- 
ful ecstacy. 



TO A TAPER. 

'Tis midnight — On the globe dead slumber sits, 

And all is silence — in the hour of sleep ; 
Save when the hollow gust, that swells by fits, 

In the dark wood roars fearfully and deep. 
I wake alone to listen and to weep, 

To watch, my taper, thy pale beacon burn ; 
And, as still Memory does her vigils keep, 

To think of days that never can return. 
By thy pale ray I raise my languid head, 

My eye surveys the solitary gloom ; 
And the sad meaning tear, unmix'd with 
dread, 

Tells thou dost light me to the silent 
tomb. 
Like thee I wane ; — like thine my life's last ray 
Will fade in loneliness, unwept, away. 



And canst thou, Mother, for a moment think, 
That we, thy children, when old age shallshed 
Its blanching honours on thy weary head, 

Could from our best of duties ever shrink ? 

Soonerthe sun from his high sphere should sink 
Than we, ungrateful, leave thee in that day, 
To pine in solitude thy life away, 

Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold 
brink. [roam, 

Banish the thought ! — where'er our steps may 

O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a 

tree, [thee, 

Still will fond memory point our hearts to 

And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home ; 

While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage, 

And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age. 



Yes, 'twill be over soon. — This sickly dream 
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; 

And death my wearied spirit will redeem 
From this wild region of unvaried pain. 

Yon brook will glide as softly as before,— 
Yon landscape smile,— yon golden harvest 

grow- 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar 

When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress, 

They laugh in health, and future evils brave ; 
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, 

While I am mouldering in my silent grave. 
God of the just— Thou gavest the bitter cup ; 
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. 



TO CONSUMPTION. 

Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, 
Consumption, lay thine hand !— letme decay, 
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away. 

And softly go to slumber with the dead. 

And if 'tis true, what holy men have said, 
That strains angelic oft foretell the day 
Of death, to those good men who fall thy 

O let the aerial music round my bed, [prey, 

Dissolving sad in dying symphony, 
Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear : 

That I may bid my weeping friends good-by 
Ere I depart upon my journey drear : 

And, smiling faintly on the painful past, 

Compose my decent head, and breathe my last. 



TRANSLATED 

FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX. 
Thy judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to 
The face of pity and of love divine ; [wear 



34> H. K. WHITENS 

But mine is guilt— thou must not, canst not 
spare, 
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine. 
Yes, oh my God!— such crimes as mine, so 
dread, 
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee ; 
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head, 
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me ! 



POEMS. 

Thy will be done — since 'tis thy glory's due, 

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow ; 
Smite— it is time — though endless death en- 
sue, 
I bless the avenging hand that lays me low. 
But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, 
That has not first been drench'd in Christ's 
atoning blood ? 



POEMS 



OF A LATER DATE. 



TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, 

Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly, asked, 

" If he did not feel for him?'* 

" Do I not feel ?" The doubt is keen as steel. 

Yea, I do feel — most exquisitely feel ; 

My heart can weep, when from my downcast 

eye 
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh : 
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart, 
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart. 
On this I act — whatever pangs surround, 
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound ! 
When all was new, and life was in its spring, 
I lived an unloved solitary thing ; 
Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day, 
The piercing cares that wore my youth away : 
Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel ; 
Even then I wept I had not power to heal : 
Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly 

gloom, 
I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd 

the wretched's doom, 
Who were my friends in youth? — The mid- 
night fire — 
The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir ; 
To these I 'plained, or turn'd from outer sight, 
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light ; 
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn, 
For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn ; 
The sacred source of wo I never ope, 
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope. 
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show, 
Though the cold crowd the secret never know ; 
With them I laugh — yet, when no eye can see, 
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee. 



Yes, thou didst wrong me, * * * ; 1 fondly 

thought [sought ! 

In thee I'd found the friend my heart had 
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the 

guise, 
And read the truth that in my bosom lies ; 
I fondly thought ere Time's last days were 

gone, 
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one ! 
Yes— and they yet will mingle. Days and 

years 
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears : 
We then shall feel that friendship has a power 
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour ; 
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand, 
And wait the passport to a better land. 



Thine, 



H. K. WHITE. 



Half past Eleven & 'Clock at Night. 

CHRISTMAS-DAY. 

1804. 

Yet once more, and once more, awake my 

Harp, 
From silence and neglect — one lofty strain, 
Lofty, yet. wilder than the winds of Heaven, 
And speaking mysteries more than words can 

tell, 
I ask of thee, for I, with hymnings high, 
Would join the dirge of the departing year. 



ODES. 



35 



Yet with no wintry garland from the woods, 
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear, 
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December ! now ; 
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song, 
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day 
Of the Redeemer. — Near two thousand suns 
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse 
Of generations, since the day-spring first 
Beamed from on high !— Now to the mighty 

mass 
Of that increasing aggregate we add 
One unit more. Space, in comparison, 
How small, yet mark'd with how much misery ; 
Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence, 
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge ; 
The oppress'd, too, in silent bitterness, 
Weeping their sufferance ; and the arm of 

wrong, 
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak, 
And steeping the lone widow's couch with 

tears. 

So has the year been character'd with wo 

In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs 

and crimes ; 
Yet 'twas not thus He taught — not thus He lived , 
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer 
And much thanksgiving. — He, a man of woes, 
Went on the way appointed,— path, though 

rude, 
Yet Dome with patience still :— He came to 

cheer 
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick, 
And on the wandering and benighted mind 
To pour the light of truth.— O task divine ! 
O more than angel teacher ! He had words 
To soothe the barking waves, and hush the 

winds ; 
And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas, 
Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling 

storm, 
He, pointing to the star of peace on high, 
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile 

At the surrounding wreck. 

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd, 
Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek, 
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He 

pray'd, 
His persecutors — " Father, pardon them, 
They know not what they do." 

Angels of Heaven, 
Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross, 
And did him homage, say, may mortal join 
The hallelujahs of the risen God ? 
Will the faint voice and grovelling song be 

heard 
Amid the seraphim in light divine? 
Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will 

deign, 
For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith, 



Low though it be and humble. — Lord of life, 
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now 
Fills my jprising soul.— I mount, I fly 
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs ; 
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes, 
And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more. 



NELSONI MORS. 

Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again, 
One ditty more, and on the mountain ash 
1 will again suspend thee. I have felt 
The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since 

last, 
At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, 
I woke to thee the melancholy song. 
Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, 
I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the 

freaks 
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth ; 
Not unrepining, for my froward heart, 
Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow 
Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied 

haunts 
Of my not songless boyhood. — Yet once more, 
Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, 
My long neglected Harp. — He must not sink ; 
The good, the brave— he must not, shall not sink 
Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour 
No precious dews of Aganippe's well, 
Or Castaly, — though from the morning cloudy 
I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse : 
Y'et will I wreathe a garland for his brows, 
Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent 
Of Britain, my loved country ; and with tears 
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe 
Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm 
And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd 
Fast from thy honest heart. — Thou, Pity, too, 
If ever I have loved, with faltering step, 
To follow thee in the cold and starless night, 
To the top-crag of some rain -beaten cliff; 
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud 
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd 
Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying 

winds, 
The dying soul's viaticum; if oft 
Amid the carnage of the field I've sate 
With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung 
To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, 
With mercy and forgiveness — visitant 
Of Heaven — sit thou upon my harp, 
And give it feeling, which were else too cold 
For argument so great, for theme so high. 



36 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



How dimly on that morn the sun arose, 
Kerchieft! in mists, and tearful, when 



HYMN. 



In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure 
the splendours of the Deity. 



I. 

Awake, sweet harp of Judah, wake, 
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake ; 
We sing the Saviour of our race, 
The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place. 

ir. 

When God's right arm is bared for war, 
And thunders clothe his cloudy car, 
Where, where, oh where, shall man retire, 
To escape the horrors of his ire ? 

III. 

'Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly, 
While the dread tempest passes by ; 
God sees his Well-beloved's face, 
And spares us in our hiding-place. 

IV. 

Thus while we dwell in this low scene, 
The Lamb is our unfailing screen ; 
To him, though guilty, still we run, 
, And God still spares us for his Son. 

V. 

While yet we sojourn here below, 
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow ; 
Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, 
We deeply need a hiding-place. 

VI. 

Yet courage — days and years will glide, 
And we shall lay these clods aside ; 
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, 
And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood. 

VII. 

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, 
We through the Lamb shall be decreed ; 
Shall meet the Father face to face, 
And need no more a hiding-place. 

The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporan- 
souslv, by Henry, one summer evening, when he was with 
a few friends on the Trent, and singing it as he was used 
to do on such occasions. 



A HYMN 



FOR FAMILY WORSHIP 



I. 



O Loud, another day is flown, 

And we, a lonely band, 
Are met once more before thy throne, 

To bless thy fostering hand. 

II. 

And wilt thou bend a listening ear, 

To praises low as ours ? 
Thou wilt ! for Thou dost love to hear 

The song which meekness pours. 

III. 

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles will deign, 

As we before thee pray ; 
For thou didst bless the infant train, 

And we are less than they. 

IV. 

O let thy grace perform its part, 
And let contention cease ; 

And shed abroad in every heart 
Thine everlasting peace ! 



V. 



Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, 

A flock by Jesus led ; 
The Sun of Holiness shall shine, 

In glory on our head. 

VI. 

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet, 
And thou wilt bless our way ; 

Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 
The dawn of lasting day. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 



When marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
The glittering host bestud the sky ; 

One star alone, of all the train, 

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 



ODES. 



37 



II. 

Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
From every host, from every gem ; 

But one alone the Saviour speaks, 
It h the Star of Bethlehem. 

III. 

Once on the raging seas I rode, 

The storm was loud, — the night was dark, 
The ocean yawn'd — and rudely blow'd 

The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. 

IV. 

Deep horror then my vitals froze, 

Death-struck, 1 ceased the tide to stem ; 
When suddenly a star arose, 
It was the Star of Bethlehem. 

V. 

It was my guide, my light, my all, 

It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 

And through the storm and dangers' thrall, 
It led me to the port of peace. 

VI. 

Now safely moor'd — my perils o'er, 
I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 

For ever and for evermore, 

The star !— The Star of Bethlehem ! 



A HYMN. 

O Lord, my God, in mercy turn, 
In mercy hear a sinner mourn! 
To thee I call, to thee I cry, 

leave me, leave me not to die ! 

1 strove against thee, Lord, I know, 

I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law ; 
The hour is past — the day's gone by, 
And I am left alone to die. 

O pleasures past, what are ye now 
But thorns about my bleeding brow ! 
Spectres that hover round my brain, 
And aggravate and mock my pain. 

For pleasure I have given my soul ; 
Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll ! 
Now Vengeance smile — and with a blow, 
Lay the rebellious ingrate low. 

Yet, Jesus, Jesus ! there I'll cling, 
I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing ; 
I'll clasp the cross, and holding there, 
Even me, oh bliss '.—his wrath may spare. 



MELODY. 



Inserted in a Collection of Selected and Original Songs, 
published by the Rev. J. Plumptre, of Clare Hall, Cam- 
bridge. 

I. 

Yes, once more that dying strain, 

Anna, touch thy lute for me ; 
Sweet, when Pity's tones complain, 

Doubly sweet is melody. 



II. 



While the Virtues thus enweave 
Mildly soft the thrilling song, 

Winter's long and lonesome eve 
Glides unfelt, unseen, along. 

III. 

Thus when life hath stolen away, 
And the wintry night is near, 

Thus shall Virtue's friendly ray 
Age's closing evening cheer. 



SONG.— BY WALLER. 

A lady of Cambridge lent Waller'* Poema to Henry, and 
when he returned them to her, she discovered an addi- 
tional Stanza written hy him at the bottom of the Song 
here copied. 

Go, lovely rose ! 
Tell her, that wastes her time on me, 

That now she knows, 
When I resemble her to thee, 
How sweet and fair she seems to be. 

Tell her that's young, 
And shuns to have her graces spied, 

That hadst thou sprung 
In deserts where no men abide, 
Thou must have uncommended died. 

Small is the worth 
Of beauty from the light retired ; 

Bid her come forth, 
Suffer herself to be desired, 
And not blush so to be admired. 

Then die, that she 
The common fate of all things rare 

May read in thee ; 
How small a part of time they share, 
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 

[Yet, though thou fade, 
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 

And teach the Maid 
That Goodness Time's rude hand defies ; 
That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.] 

H. K. White. 



38 H. K. 

' I AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SA 

I. 

When twilight steals along the ground, 
And all the bells are ringing round, 

One, two, three, four, and five, 
I at my study-window sit, 
And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit, 

To bliss am all alive. 



II. 



But though impressions calm and sweet 
Thrill round my heart a holy heat, 

And I am inly glad, 
The tear-drop stands in either eye, 
And yet I cannot tell thee why, 

I am pleased, and yet I'm sad. 

III. 

The silvery rack that flies away 
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray, 

Does that disturb my breast ? 
Nay, what have I, a studious man, 
To do with life's unstable plan. 

Or pleasure's fading vest? 

IV. 

Is it that here I must not stop, 
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top 

Must bend my lonely way ? 
No, surely no ! for give but me 
My own fire-side, and I shall be 

At home where'er I stray. 



V. 



Then is it that yon steeple there, 
With music sweet shall fill the air, 

When thou no more canst hear? 
Oh, no ! oh, no ! for then forgiven 
I shall be with my God in Heaven, 

Released from every fear. 

Then whence it is I cannot tell, 
But there is some mysterious spell 

That holds me when I'm glad ; 
And so the tear-drop fills my eye, 
When yet in truth I know not why, 

Or wherefore I am sad. 



SOLITUDE. 

It is not that my lot is low, 
That bids this silent tear to flow ; 
It is not grief that bids me moan, 
It is that I am all alone. 



WHITE'S POEMS. 

D." In woods and glens I love to roam, 

When the tired hedger hies him home ; 
Or by the woodland pool to rest, 
When pale the star looks on its breast. 

Yet when the silent evening sighjs, 
With hallow'd airs and symphonies, 
My spirit takes another tone, 
And sighs that it is all alone. 

The autumn leaf is sear and dead, 
It floats upon the water's bed ; 
i I would not be a leaf, to die 

Without recording sorrow's sigh ! 



The woods and winds, with sudden wail, 
Tell all the same unvaried tale ; 
Fve none to smile when I am free, 
And when I sigh, to sigh with me. 

Yet in my dreams a form I view, 
That thinks on me, and loves me too ; 
I start, and when the vision's flown, 
I weep that I am all alone. 



If far from me the Fates remove 
Domestic peace, connubial love, 
The prattling ring, the social cheer, 
Affection's voice, affection's tear, 
Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart, 
To me your iron aid impart ! 

teach me, when the nights are chill, 
And my fire-side is lone and still ; 
When to the blaze that crackles near, 

1 turn a tired and pensive ear, 

And Nature conquering bids me sigh, 
For love's soft accents whispering nigh 

teach me, on that heavenly road, 
That leads to Truth's occult abode, 
To wrap my soul in dreams divine, 
Till earth and care no more be mine. 
Let bless'd Philosophy impart 

Her soothing measures to my heart ; 
And while with Plato's ravish'd ears 

1 list the music of the spheres, 
Or on the mystic symbols pore, 
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore, 
I shall not brood on summers gone, 
Nor think that I am ail alone. 



Fanny ! upon thy breast I may not lie ! 

Fanny ! thou dost not hear me when I 
speak ! 
Where art thou, love? — Around I turn my eye, 

And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek. 



Was it a dream ? or did my love behold 
Indeed my -lonely couch ? — Methought the 
breath 
Fann'd not her bloodless lip ; her eye was 
cold 
And hollow, and the livery of death 
Invested her pale forehead. — Sainted maid ! 
My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold 
grave, 



FRAGMENTS. 39 

Through the long wintry night, when wind 
and wave [laid 

Rock the dark house where thy poor head 
Yet, hush ! my fond heart, hush ! there is 
shore 
Of better promise ; and I know at last, 
When the long sabbath of the tomb is past, 
We two shall meet in Christ — to part n 
more. 



VIRA<EUEO£!V& 



These Fragments are Henry's latest compositions ; and were, for the most part, written upon the back of his 
mathematical papers, during the few moments of the last year of his life, in which he suffered himself to follow 
the impulse of his genius. 



I. 



Saw'st thou that light ? exclaim'd the youth, 

and paused : [stream 

Through yon dark firs it glanced, and on the 
That skirts the woods it for a moment play'd. 
Again, more light it gleam'd, — or does some 

sprite [streams, 

Delude mine eyes with shapes of wood and 
And lamp far-beaming through the thicket's 

gloom, 
As from some bosom'd cabin, where the voice 
Of revelry, or thrifty watchfulness, 
Keeps in the lights at this unwonted hour? 
No sprite deludes mine eyes, — the beam now 

glows 
With steady lustre. — Can it be the moon, 
Who, hidden long by the invidious veil 
That blots the Heavens, now sets behind the 

woods? 
No moon to-night has look'd upon the sea 
Of clouds beneath her, answer'd Rudiger, 
She has been sleeping with Endymion. 



II. 



The pious man, 
In this bad world, when mists and couchant 
storms [faith 

Hide Heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in 



Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields 
Of ether, where the day is never veil'd 
With intervening vapours ; and looks down 
Serene upon the troublous sea, that hides 
The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether 

face 
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkness all ; 
But on whose billowy back, from man con> 

ceal'd, 
The glaring sunbeam plays. 



III. 

Lo ! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, 
Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes, 
And from his tower of mist, 
Night's watchman hurries down. 



IV. 



There was a little bird upon that pile ; 

It perch'd upon a ruin'd pinnacle, 

And made sweet melody. 

The song was soft, yet cheerful, and most 

clear, 
For other note none swell'd the air but his. 
It seem'd as if the little chorister, 
Sole tenant of the melancholy pile, 
k Were a lone hermit, outcast from his kind, 



40 H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 

Yet withal cheerful. — I have heard the note ! 
Echoing- so lonely o'er the aisle forlorn, 
Much musing — 



VII. 



V. 



pale art thou, my lamp, and faint 

Thy melancholy ray : 
When the still night's unclouded saint 

Is walking on her way. 
Through my lattice leaf embower'd, 
Fair she sheds her shadowy beam, 
And o'er my silent sacred room, 
Casts a checker'd twilight gloom ; 
I throw aside the learned sheet, [sweet. 

1 cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly 

Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, 
Or why am I so frail ? 

Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, Moon, 
And cheerest my lone hours with sweet re- 
gards ! 
Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak 

Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd ; 
So mournfully composed, o'er yonder cloud 
Thou shinest, like a cresset, beaming far 
From the rude watch-tower, o'er the Atlantic 
wave. 



VI. 



O give me music — for my soul doth faint ; 

I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine 

ear [plaint, 

Longs for some air of peace, some dying 

That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. 

Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along, 

Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, 
When all is still ; and now it grows more 
strong, 
As when the choral train their dirges weave, 
Mellow and many-voiced ; where every close, 
O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves 
reflows. 

Oh ! I am rapt aloft. My spirit soars 
Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars be- 
hind. 
Lo ! angels lead me to the happy shores, 

And floating paeans fill the buoyant wind. 
Farewell ! base earth, farewell ! my soul is 

freed, 
Far from its clayey cell it springs,— 



Ah ! who can say, however fair his view, 
Through what sad scenes his path may lie ? 
Ah ! who can give to others' woes his sigh, 

Secure his own will never need it too ? 

Let thoughtless youth its seeming joys pursue, 
Soon will they learn to scan with thought- 
ful eye 
The illusive past and dark futurity ; 

Soon will they know — 



VIII. 

And must thou go, and must we part ? 

Yes, Fate decrees, and I submit ; 
The pang that rends in twain my heart, 

Oh, Fanny, dost thou share in it ? 

Thy sex is fickle, — when away, 

Some happier youth may win thy — 



IX. 

SONNET. 

When 1 sit musing on the checker'd past, 

(A term much darken'd with untimely 

woes,) [flows 

My thoughts revert to her, for whom still 

The tear, though half disown'd ; — and binding 

fast 
Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart, 
I say to her she robb'd me of my rest, 
When that was all my wealth. — 'Tis true my 
breast [smart, 

Received from her this wearying, lingering 
Yet, ah ! I cannot bid her form depart ; 
Though wrong'd, 1 love her — yet in anger 

love, 
For she was most unworthy. — Then I prove 
Vindictive joy ; and on my stern front gleams, 
Throned in dark clouds, inflexible * * * 
The native pride of my much injured heart. 



X. 



When high romance o'er every wood and 
stream 
Dark lustre shed, my infant mind to fire, 
Spell-struck, and fill'd with many a wondering 
dream, 
First in the groves I woke the pensive Jyre, 



ON TIMU. 



All there was mystery then, the gust that woke 

The midnight echo with a spirit's dirge, 
And unseen fairies would the moon invoke, 
To their light morrice by the restless 
surge. [smiles, 

Now to my sober'd thought with life's false 

Too much * * 
The vagrant Fancy spreads no more her wiles, 
And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. 



41 



XI. 



Hush'd is the lyre — the hand that swept 
The low and pensive wires, 
Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires. 

Yes— it is still — the lyre is still ; 
The spirit which its slumbers broke 
Hath pass'd away,— and that weak hand 
that woke 

Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. 



Yet I would press you to my lips once more, 
Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy ; 

Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye 
pour, 
Mix'd with decaying odours : for to me 

Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, 
As in the wood-paths of my native — 



XII. 



Once more, and yet once more, 

I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay ; 
I heard the waters roar, 

I heard the flood of ages pass away. 
O thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell 

In thine eternal cell, 
Noting, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 

1 saw thee rise, — I saw the scroll complete, 

Thou spakest, and at thy feet 
The universe gave way. 



A POEM. 



This Poem was begun either during the publication of Clifton Grove, or shortly afterwards. Henry never laid 
aside the intention of completing it, and some of the detached parts were among his latest productions. 



Genius of musings, who, the midnight hour 
Wasting in woods or haunted forests wild, 
Dost watch Orion in his arctic tower, 
Thy dark eye fix'd as in some holy trance ; 
Or when the vollied lightnings cleave the air, 
And Ruin gaunt bestrides the winged storm, 
Sitt'st in some lonely watch-tower, where thy 

lamp, 
Faint -blazing, strikes the fisher's eye from far, 
And, 'mid the howl of elements, unmoved 
Dost ponder on the awful scene, and trace 
The vast effect to its superior source, — 
Spirit, attend my lowly benison ! 
For now 1 strike to themes of import high 
The solitary lyre ; and, borne by thee 
Above this narrow cell, I celebrate 
The mysteries of Time ! 

Him who, august, 
Was ere these worlds were fashioned, — ere 

the sun 
Sprang from the east, or Lucifer display 'd 



His glowing cresset in the arch of morn, 

Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. 

Yea, He had been for an eternity ! 

Had swept unvarying from eternity ! 

The harp of desolation — ere his tones, 

At God's command, assumed a milder strain, 

And startled on his watch, in the vast deep, 

Chaos' sluggish sentry, and evoked 

From the dark void the smiling universe. 

Chained to the grovelling frailties of the flesh, 
Mere mortal man, unpurged from earthly 

dross, 
Cannot survey, with fix'd and steady eye, 
The dim uncertain gulf, wnich now the muse, 
Adventurous, would explore ; — but dizzy 

grown, 
He topples down the abyss. — If he would scan 
The fearful chasm, and catch a transient 

glimpse 
Of its unfathomable depths, that so 
F 



42 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



His mind may turn with double joy to God, 
His only certainty and resting place ; 
He must put off awhile this mortal vest, 
And learn to follow, without giddiness, 
To heights where all is vision, and surprise, 
And vague conjecture. — He must waste by 

night 
The studious taper, far from all resort 
Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat ; 
High on the beetling promontory's crest, 
Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, 
Where, compass'd round with Nature's 

wildest shapes. 
He may be driven to centre all his thoughts 
In the great Architect, who Rves confess'd 
In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes. 

So has divine Philosophy, with voice 
Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, 
Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, 
Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, 
His faint, neglected song — intent to snatch 
Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous 

steep 
Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue, 
So sober, as may not unseemly suit 
With Truth's severer brow ; and one withal 
So hardy as shall brave the passing wind 
Of many winters, — rearing its meek head 
In loveliness, when he who gather'd it 
Is number'd with the generations gone. 
Yet not to me hath God's good providence 
Given studious leisure,* or unbroken thought, 
Such as he owns, — a meditative man, 
Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve 
Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, 
Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din : 
From noise and wrangling far, and undis- 

turb'd [day 

With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the 
Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 
Of stedfast application, but which leave 
No deep improving trace upon the mind. 
But be the day another's ; — let it pass ! 
The night's my own — They cannot steal my 

night ! 
When evening lights her folding-star on high, 
I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours 
Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies, 
Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, 
And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for 

Heaven. 

Hence do I love the sober-suited maid ; 
Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my 

theme, 
And she shall aid me now to magnify 
The night of ages,— now when the pale ray 
Of star-light penetrates the studious gloom, 

* The author was then in an attorney's office. 



And, at my window seated, while mankind 
Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening 

breeze 
Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, 
Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, 
Assumes her wonted sway. 

Behoid the world 
Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused 
From trouble and turmoil. The widow now 
Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie 
Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. 
The man of sorrow has forgot his woes ; 
The outcast that his head is shelterless, 
His griefs unshared. — The mother tends no 

more 
Her daughter's dying slumbers, but, surprised 
With heaviness, and sunk upon her couch, 
Dreams of her bridals. Even the hectic, 

lull'd 
On Death's lean arm to rest, in visions wrapp'd, 
Crowning with Hope's bland wreath his shud- 
dering nurse, [pose 
Poor victim ! smiles. — Silence and deep re- 
Reign o'er the nations ; and the warning voice 
Of Nature utters audibly within 
The general moral : — tells us that repose, 
Deathlike as this, but of far longer span, 
Is coming on us — that the weary crowds, 
Who now enjoy a temporary calm, 
Shall soon taste lasting quiet, wrapp'd around 
With grave-clothes : and their aching restless 

heads 
Mouldering in holes and corners unobserved, 
Till the last trump shall break their sullen 
sleep. 

Who needs a teacher to admonish him 

That flesh is grass, that earthly things are mist ? 

What are our joys but dreams ? and what our 

hopes 
But goodly shadows in the summer cloud ? 
There's not a wind that blows but bears with it 
Some rainbow promise : — Not a moment flies 
But puts its sickle in the fields of life, 
And mows its thousands, with their joys and 

cares. 
'Tis but as yesterday since on yon stars, 
Which now I view, the Chaldee Shepherd * 

gazed 
In his mid-watch observant, and disposed 
The twinkling hosts as fancy gave them shape. 
Yet in the interftn what mighty shocks 
Have buffeted mankind — whole nations razed— 
Cities made desolate, — the polish'd sunk 
To barbarism, and once barbaric states 
Swaying the wand of science and of arts ; 
Illustrious deeds and memorable names 

* Alluding to the first astronomical observations made 
by the Chaldean shepherds. 



Blotted from record, and upon the tongue 
Of gray Tradition, volubje no more. 

Where are the heroes of the ages past ? 
Where the brave chieftains, where the mighty 

ones 
Who flourished in the infancy of days ? 
All to the grave gone down. On their fallen 

fame 

Exultant, mocking at the pride of man, 
Sits grim Forgetfulness. — The warrior's arm 
Lies nerveless on the pillow of its shame ; 
Hush'd is his stormy voice, and quench'd the 

blaze 
Of his red eye- ball. — Yesterday his name 
Was mighty on the earth— To day — 'tis what? 
The meteor of the night of distant years, 
That flash'd unnoticed, save by wrinkled eld, 
Musing at midnight upon prophecies, 
Who at her lonely lattice saw the gleam 
Point to the mist-poised shroud, then quietly 
Closed her pale lips, and lock'd the secret up 
Safe in the charnel's treasures. 

O how weak 
Is mortal man ! how trifling— how confined 
His scope of vision ! PufF'd with confidence, 
His phrase grows big with immortality, 
And he, poor insect of a summer's day ! 
Dreams of eternal honours to his name ; 
Of endless glory and perennial bays. 
He idly reasons of eternity, 
As of the train of ages, — when, alas.' 
Ten thousand thousand of his centuries 
Are, in comparison, a little point 
Too trivial for accompt. — O, it is strange, 
'Tis passing strange, to mark his fallacies ; 
Behold him proudly view some pompous pile. 
Whose high dome swells to emulate the skies, 
And smile, and say, my name shall live with 

this 
Till Time shall be no more ; while at his feet, 
Yea, at his very feet, the crumbling dust 
Of the fallen fabric of the other day 
Preaches the solemn lesson. — He should know 
That time must conquer ; that the loudest blast 
That ever fill'd Renown's obstreperous trump 
Fades in the lapse of ages, and expires. 
Who lies inhumed in the terrific gloom 
Of the gigantic pyramid? or who [says, 

Rear'd its huge walls ? Oblivion laughs, and 
The prey is mine — They sleep, and never more 
Their names shall strike upon the ear of man, 
^heir memory bursts its fetters. 

Where is Rome ? 
She lives but in the tale of other times ; 
Her proud pavilions are the hermit's home. 
And her long colonnades, her public walks, 
Now faintly echo to the pilgrim's feet, 
Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace, 
Through the rank moss reveal'd, her honour'd 
dust. 



ON TIME. 45 

But not to Rome alone has fate confined 
The doom of ruin ; cities numberless, 
Tyre, Sidon, Carthage, Babylon, and Troy, 
And rich Phoenicia — they are blotted out, 
Half-razed from memory, and their very name 
And being in dispute.— Has Athens fallen ? 
Is polish'd Greece become the savage seat 
Of ignorance and sloth ? and shall we dare 



And empire seeks another hemisphere. 
Where now is Britain 1 — Where her laurell'd 

names, 
Her palaces and halls ? Dash'd in the dust, 
Some second Vandal hath reduced her pride. 
And with one big recoil hath thrown her back 

To primitive barbarity. Again, 

Through her depopulated vales, the scream 
Of bloody Superstition hollow rings, 
And the scared native to the tempest howls 
The yell of deprecation. O'er her marts, 
Her crowded ports, broods Silence ; and the cry 
Of the low curlew, and the pensive dash 
Of distant billows, breaks alone the void. 
Even as the savage sits upon the stone 
That marks where stood her capitols, and hears 
The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks 
From the dismaying solitude. — Her bards 
Sing in a language that hath perished ; 
And their wild harps suspended o'er their 

graves, 
Sigh to the desert winds a dying strain. 

Meanwhile the Arts, in second infancy, 

Rise in some distant clime, and then, perchance, 

Some bold adventurer, fill'd with golden 

dreams, 
Steering his bark through trackless solitudes, 
Where, to his wandering thoughts, no daring 

prow 
Hath ever plough'd before,-r-espies the clifFa 
Of fallen Albion. — To the land unknown 
He journeys joyful ; and perhaps descries 
Some vestige of her ancient stateliness : 
Then he, with vain conjecture, fills his mind 
Of the unheard-of race, which had arrived 
At science in that solitary nook, 
Far from the civil world ; and sagely sighs, 
And moralizes on the state of man. 

Still on its march, unnoticed and unfelt, 
Moves on our being. We do live and breathe, 
And we are gone. The spoiler heeds us not. 
We have our spring-time and our rottenness ; 
And as we fall, another race succeeds, 
To perish likewise. — Meanwhile Nature 

smiles — 
The seasons run their round— The Sun fulfils 



H, K. WHITE'S 

Heaven and earth 



His annual coarse — and 

remain 
Still changing, yet unchanged— still doom'd to 

feel 
Endless mutation in perpetual rest. 
Where are conceal'd the days which have 

elapsed? 
Hid in the mighty cavern of the past, 
They rise upon us only to appal, 
By indistinct and half-glimpsed images, 
Misty, gigantic, huge, obscure, remote. 

Oh, it is fearful, on the midnight couch, 
When the rude rushing winds forget to rave, 
And the pale moon, that through the casement 

high 
Surveys the sleepless muser, stamps the hour 
Of utter silence, it is fearful then 
To steer the mind, in deadly solitude, 
Up the vague stream of probability ; 
To wind the mighty secrets of the past, 
And turn the key of Time? — Oh! who can 

strive 
To comprehend the vast, the awful truth, 
Of the eternity that hath gone by, 
And not recoil from the dismaying sense 
Of human impotence ? The life of man 
Is summ'd in birth-days and in sepulchres : 
But the Eternal God had no beginning ; 
He hath no end. Time had been with him 
For everlasting, ere the daedal Avorld 
Rose from the gulf in loveliness. — Like him 
It knew no source, like him 'twas uncreate. 
What is it then ? The past Eternity ! 
We comprehend a. future without end ; 
We feel it possible that even yon sun 
May roll for ever: but we shrink amazed — 
We stand aghast, when we reflect that Time 
Knew no commencement,— That heap age on 

age, 
And million upon million, without end, 
And we shall never span the void of days 
That were, and are not but in retrospect. 
The Past is an unfathomable depth, 
Beyond the span of thought; 'tis an elapse 
Which hath no mensuration, but hath been 
For ever and for ever. 

Change of days 
To us is sensible ; and each revolve 
Of the recording sun conducts us on 
Further in life, and nearer to our goal. 
Not so with Time,— mysterious chronicler, 
He knoweth not mutation ;— centuries 
Are to his being as a day, and days 
As centuries.— Time past, and Time to come, 
Are always equal ; when the world began 
God had existed from eternity. 



Mvriads of ages hence. 



Now look on man 
-Hath time elapsed ? 



POEMS. 

Is he not standing in the self-same place 

Where once we stood? — The same eternity 

Hath gone before him, and is yet to come ; 

His past is not of longer span than ours, 

Though myriads of ages intervened ; 

For who can add to what has neither sum, 

Nor bound, nor source, nor estimate, nor end ' 

Oh, who can compass the Almighty mind ? 

Who can unlock the secrets of the High ? 

In speculations of an altitude 

Sublime as this, our reason stands confess'd 

Foolish, and insignificant, and mean. 

Who can apply the futile argument 

Of finite beings to infinity? 

He might as well compress the universe 

Into the hollow compass of a gourd, 

Scoop'd out by human art ; or bid the whale 

Drink up the sea it swims in .'—Can the less 

Contain the greater ? or the dark obscure 

Infold the glories of meridian day ? 

What does Philosophy impart to man 

But undiscover'd wonders ? — Let her soar 

Even to her proudest heights — to where she 

caught 
The soul of Newton and of Socrates, 
She but extends the scope of wild amaze 
And admiration. All her lessons end 
In wider views of God's unfathom'd depths. 

Lo ! the unletter'd hind, who never knew 
To raise his mind excursive to the heights 
Of abstract contemplation, as he sits 
On the green hillock by the hedge-row side, 
What time the insect swarms are murmuring, 
And marks, in silent thought, the broken clouds 
That fringe with loveliest hues the evening sky, 
Feels in his soul the hand of Nature rouse 
The thrill of gratitude, to him who form'd 
The goodly prospect ; he beholds the God 
Throned in the west, and his reposing ear 
Hears sounds angelic in the fitful breeze 
That floats through neighbouring copse or fairy 

brake, 
Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. 
Go with the cotter to his winter fire, 
Where o'er the moors the loud blast whistles 

shrill, 
And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon ; 
Mark with what awe he lists the wild uproar, 
Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him 

bless 
The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds 
For his snug hearth, and all his little joys : 
Hear him compare his happier lot with his 
Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, 
A poor night-traveller, while the dismal snow 
Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path, 
He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening 

blast, 
He hears some village-mastiff's distant howl, 






ON TIME. 

some lone cottage 



45 



And sees, far-streaming. 

light ; 
Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, 
And clasps his shivering hands; or, over- 
powered, [sleep, 
Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with 
From which the hapless wretch shall never 
wake. [praise 
Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with 
And glowing gratitude, — he turns to bless, 
With honest warmth, his Maker and his God ! 
And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, 
Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred 
In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal 
To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 
Whom starry Science in her cradle rock'd, 
And Castaly enchasten d with its dews, 
Closes his eyes upon the holy word, 
And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, 
Dares to declare his infidelity, 
And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts? 
What is philosophy, if it impart 
Irreverence for the Deity, or teach 
A mortal man to set his judgment up 
Against his Maker's will ? — The Polygar, 
Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him 
Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys, 
Is the most bless'd of men ! — Oh ! I would walk 
A weary journey, to the furthest verge 
Of the big world, to kiss that good man's hand, 
Who, in the blaze of wisdom and of art, 
Preserves a lowly mind ; and to his God, 
Feeling the sense of his own littleness, 
Is as a child in meek simplicity ! 
What is the pomp of learning? the parade 
Of letters and of tongues ? Even as the mists 
Of the gray morn before the rising sun, 
That pass away and perish. 

Earthly things 
Are but the transient pageants of an hour ; 
And earthly pride is like the passing flower, 
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die. 
'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud, 
Baseless and silly as the school-boy's dream. 
Ages and epochs that destroy our pride, 
And then record its downfall, what are they 
But the poor creatures of man's teeming brain ? 
Hath Heaven its ages ? or doth Heaven pre- 
serve 
Its stated aeras ? Doth the Omnipotent 
Hear of to-morrows or of yesterdays ? 
There is to God nor future nor a past ; 
Throned in his might, all times to him are 

present ; 
He hath no lapse, no past, no time to come ; 
He sees before him one eternal note. 
Time moveth not ! — our being 'tis that moves : 
And we, swift gliding down life's rapidstreara, 
Dream of swift ages and revolving years, 
Ordain'd to chronicle our passing days ; 



So the young sailor in the gallant bark, 
Scudding before the wind, beholds the coast 
Receding from his eyes, and thinks the while, 
Struck with amaze, that he is motionless, 
And that the land is sailing. 

Such, alas ! 
Are the illusions of this Proteus life ; 
All, all is false : through every phasis still 
'Tis shadowy and deceitful. It assumes 
The semblances of things and specious shapes ; 
But the lost traveller might as soon rely 
On the evasive spirit of the marsh, 
Whose lantern beams, and vanishes, and flits, 
O'er bog, and rock, and pit, and hollow way, 
As we on its appearances. 

On earth 
There is nor certainty nor stable hope. 
As well the weary mariner, whose bark 
Is toss'd beyond Cimmerian Bosphorus, 
Where Storm and Darkness hold their drear 

domain, 
And sunbeams never penetrate, might trust 
To expectation of serener skies, 
And linger in the very jaws of death, 
Because some peevish cloud were opening, 
Or the loud storm had bated in its rage : 
As we look forward in this vale of teai*s 
Topermanentdelight — from some slight glimpse 
Of shadowy unsubstantial happiness. 

The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond 

The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep 

Of mortal desolation. — He beholds, 

Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride 

Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves 

Of dark Vicissitude. — Even in death, 

In that dread hour, when with a giant pang, 

Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, 

The immortal spirit struggles to be free, 

Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, 

For it exists beyond the narrow verge 

Of the cold sepulchre. — The petty joys 

Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, 

And rested on the bosom of its God. 

This is man's only reasonable hope ; 

And 'tis a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, 

Shall not be disappointed. — Even he, 

The Holy One — Almighty — who elanced 

The rolling world along its airy way, 

Even He will deign to smile upon the good, 

And welcome him to these celestial seats, 

Where joy and gladness hold their changeless 

reign. 
Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, 
Survey the countless gems which richly stud, 
The Night's imperial chariot ; — Telescopes * 
Will show thee myriads more innumerous 
Than the sea sand ; — each of those little lamps 
j Is the great source of light, the central sun 
I Round which some other mighty sisterhood 



46 



H, K. WHITE'S POEMS, 



Of planets travel, every planet stock'd 

With living beings impotent as thee. 

Now, proud man ! now, where is thy greatness 

fled ? 
What art thou in the scale of universe ? 
Less, less than nothing .'—Yet of thee the God 
Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is 

careful, 
As well as of the mendicant who kegs 
The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou 
Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn 
His heavenly providence ! Deluded fool, 
Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with 

death, 
Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell. 

How insignificant is mortal man, 
Buund to the hasty pinions of an hour ; 
How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit 
Of infinite duration, boundless space ! 
God of the universe ! Almighty one ! 
Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, 
Or with the storm thy rugged charioteer, 
Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, 
Ridest from pole to pole ; Thou who dost hold 
The forked lightnings in thine awful grasp,' 
And reinest in the earthquake, when thy wrath 
Goes down towards erring man, I would ad- 
dress 
To Thee my parting paean ; for of Thee, 
Great beyond comprehension, who thyself 
Art Time and Space, sublime Infinitude, 
Of Thee has been my song — With awe I kneel 
Trembling before the footstool of thy state, 
My God ! my Father ! — I will sing to Thee 
A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle, 
Ere on the cypress wreath, which overshades 
The throne of Death, I hang my mournful 

lyre, 
And give its wild strings to the desert gale. 
Rise, Son of Salem ! rise, andjoin the strain, 
Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, 
And leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul 
To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, 
And hallelujah, for the Lord is great 
And full of mercy ! He has thought of man ; 
Yea, compass'd round with countless worlds, 

has thought 
Of we poor worms, that batten in the dews 
Of morn, and perish ere the noon-day sun. 
Sing to the Lord, for he is merciful : 
He gave the Nubian lion but to live, 
To rage its hour, and perish ; but on man 
He lavish'd immortality, and Heaven. 
The eagle falls from her aerial tower, 
And mingles with irrevocable dust : 
But man from death springs joyful, 
Springs up to life and to eternity. 
Oh, that, insensate of the favouring boon, 
The great exclusive privilege bestow'd 



On us unworthy trifles, men should dare 

To treat with slight regard the proffer'd 

Heaven, 
And urge the lenient, but All-Just, to swear 
In wrath, " They shall not enter in my rest." 
Might I address the supplicative strain 
To thy high footstool, I would pray that thou 
Wouldst pity the deluded wanderers, 
And fold them, ere they perish, in thy flock. 
Yea, I would bid thee pity them, through Hiir, 
Thy well-beloved, who, upon the cross, 
Bled a dead sacrifice for human sin, 
And paid, with bitter agony, the debt 
Of primitive transgression. 

Oh ! I shrink, 
My very soul doth shrink, when I reflect 
That the time hastens, when in vengeance 

clothed, [fate 

Thou shalt come down to stamp the seal of 
On erring mortal man. Thy chariot wheels 
Then shall rebound to earth's remotest caves, 
And stormy Ocean from his bed shall start 
At the appalling summons. Oh ! how dread, 
On the dark eye of miserable man, 
Chasing his sins in secrecy and gloom, 
Will burst the effulgence of the opening 

Heaven ; 
When to the brazen trumpet's deafening roar, 
Thou and thy dazzling cohorts shall descend, 
Proclaiming the fulfilment of the word! 
The dead shall start astonish 'd from their 

sleep ! 
The sepulchres shall groan and yield their prey, 
The bellowing floods shall disembogue their 

charge 
Of human victims — From the farthest nook 
Of the wide world shall troop their risen souls, 
From him whose bones are bleaching in tho 

waste 
Of polar solitudes, or him whose corpse, 
Whelm'd in the loud Atlantic's vexed tides, 
Is wash'd on some Carribean prominence, 
To the lone tenant of some secret cell 
In the Pacific's vast * * * realm, 
Where never plummet's sound was heard to 

part 
The wilderness of water ; they shall come 
To greet the solemn advent of the Judge. 
Thou first shalt summon the elected saints, 
To their apportion'd Heaven ! and thy Son, 
At thy right hand, shall smile with conscious 

joy 

On all his past distresses, when for them 
He bore humanity's severest pangs. 
Then shalt thou seize the avenging scymitar, 
And, with a roar as loud and horrible 
As the stern earthquake's monitory voice, 
The wicked shall be driven to their abode^ 
Down the immitigable gulf, to wail 
I And gnash their teeth in endless agony 



ON TIME. 



Rear thou aloft thy standard — Spirit, rear 
Thy flag on high ! — Invincible, and throned 
Iu unparticipated might. Behold 
Earth's proudest boasts, beneath thy silent 

sway, 
Sweep headlong to destruction, thou the while, 
Unmoved and heedless, thou dost hear the 

rush 
Of mighty generations, as they pass 
To the broad gulf of ruin, and dost stamp 
Thy signet on them, and they rise no more. 
Who shall contend with Time — unvanquish'd 

Time, 
The conqueror of conquerors, and lord 
Of desolation ? — Lo ! the shadows fly, 
The hours and days, and years and centuries, 
They fly, they fly, and nations rise and fall. 
The young are old, the old are in their graves. 
Heard'st thou that shout ? It rent the vaulted 

skies ; 
It was the voice of people, — mighty crowds, — 
Again! 'tis hush'd — Time speaks, and all is 

hush'd ; 
In the vast multitude now reigns alone 
Unruffled solitude. They all are still ; 
All — yea, the whole — the incalculable mass, 
Still as the ground that clasps their cold re- 
mains. 

Rear thou aloft thy standard. — Spirit, rear 
Thy flag on high ! and glory in thy strength. 
But do thou know the season yet shall come, 
When from its base thine adamantine throne 
Shall tumble ; when thine arm shall cease to 

strike, 
Thy voice forget its petrifying power ; 
When saints shall shout, and Time shall be no 
more. [comes, 

Yea, he doth come — the mighty champion 
Whose potent spear shall give thee thy death- 
wound, 
Shall crush the conqueror of conquerors, 
And desolate stern Desolation's lord. 
Lo ! where he cometh ! the Messiah comes ! 
The King ! the Comforter ! the Christ !— He 

comes 
To burst the bonds of death, and overturn 



The 



47 
Hark ! the trumpet's 



power of Time 

blast [rise- 

Rings o'er the heavens ! They rise, the myriads 
Even from their grayes they spring, and burst 

the chains 
Of torpor — He has ransom'd them, * * * 

Forgotten generations live again, 

Assume the bodily shapes they own'd of old, 

Beyond the flood :— the righteous of their 

times 
Embrace and weep, they weep the tears of joy. 
The sainted mother wakes, and in her lap 
Clasps her dear babe, the partner of her grave, 
And heritor with her of Heaven, — a flower 
Wash'd by the blood of Jesus from the stain 
Of native guilt, even in its early bud. 
And, hark! those strains, how solemnly se- 
rene 
They fall, as from the skies — at distance fall — 
Again more loud — The hallelujah's swell ; 
The newly -risen catch the joyful sound ; 
They glow, they burn j and now with one ac- 
cord [song 
Bursts forth sublime from every mouth the 
Of praise to God on high, and to the Lamb 
Who bled for mortals. 



Yet there is peace for man. — Yea, there is 

peace 
Even in this noisy, this unsettled scene ; 
When from the crowd, and from the city far, 
Haply he may be set (in his late walk 
O'ertaken with deep thought) beneath the 

boughs 
Of honeysuckle, when the sun is gone, 
And with fix'd eye, and wistful, he surveys 
The solemn shadows of the Heavens sail, 
And thinks the season yet shall come, when 

Time 
Will waft him to repose, to deep repose, 
Far from the unquietness of life— from noise 
And tumult far — beyond the flying clouds, 
Beyond the stars, and all this passing scene, 
Where change shall cease, and Time shall be 

no more. 



POEMS. 

CHILDHOOD: 
A POEM. 

Thi£ appeals to le one of the Author's earliest productions : written when about the age of 14. 



PART 1. 

Pictured in memory's mellowing glass how 

sweet 
Our infant days, our infant joys to greet; 
To roam in fancy in each cherish'd scene, 
The village church-yard, and the village-green, 
The woodland walk remote, the greenwood 
glade, 5 

The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade, 
The white-wash'd cottage, where the wood- 
bine grew, [knew ! 
And all the favourite haunts our childhood 
How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze, 
To view th* unclouded skies of former days ! 10 

Beloved age of innocence and smiles, 
When each wing'd hour some new d€ligbt be- 
guiles, [true, 
When the gay heart, to life's sweet day-spring 
Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue. 
JBless'd Childhood, hail !— Thee simply will I 
sing, 15 
And from myself the artless picture bring ; 
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore, 
Each humble friend, each pleasure now no 

more, 
And every stump familiar to my sight 
Recalls some fond idea of delight. 20 

This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat; 
Here did I love at evening to retreat, 
And muse alone, till in the vault of night, 
Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light. 
Here once again, remote from human noise, 25 
I sit me down to think of former joys ; 
Pause on each scene, each treasured scene, 

once more, 
And once again each infant walk explore. 
While as each grove and lawn I recognize, 
My melted soul suffuses in my eyes. 30 

And oh ! thou Power, whose myriad trains re- 
sort 
To distant scenes, and picture them to thought; 



Whose mirror, held unto the mourners eye, 
Flings to his soul a borrow'd gleam of joy ; 
Bless'd memory, guide, with finger nicely 
true, 35 

Back to my youth my retrospective view ; 
Recall with faithful vigour to my mind, 
Each face familiar, each relation kind ; 
And all the finer traits of them afford, 
W^hose general outline in my heart is stored. 40 

In yonder cot, along whose mouldering walls, 
In many a fold the mantling woodbine falls, 
The village matron kept her little school, 
Gentle of heart, yet knowing well to rule ; 
Staid was the dame, and modest was her 

mien ; 45 

Her garb was coarse, yet whole, and nicely 
Her neatly border'd cap, as lily fair, [clean : 
Beneath her chin was pinn'd with decent care ; 
And pendent ruffles, of the whitest lawn, 
Of ancient make, her elbows did adorn. 50 
Faint with old age, and dim were grown her 

eyes, 
A pair of spectacles their want supplies; 
These does she guard secure in leathern case, 
From thoughtless wights, in some uuwceted 

place. 

Here first I enter'd, though with toil and pain, 
The low vestibule of learning's fane ; 56 

Enter'd with pain, yet soon I found the way, 
Though sometimes toilsome, many a sweet 

display. 
Much did I grieve, on that ilhfated morn, 
While I was first to school reluctant borne : 60 
Severe I thought the dame, though oft she 

try'd 
To soothe my swelling spirits when I sigh'd ; 
And oft, when harshly she reproved, I wept, 
To my lone corner broken-hearted crept, 
And thought of tender home, where anger 

never kept. 05 

But soon inured to alphabetic toils, 
Alert I met the dame with jocund smiles ; 



CHILDHOOD. 



First at the form, my task for ever true, 
A little favourite rapidly I grew : 
And oft she stroked my head with fond de- 
light, 70 
Held me a pattern to the dunce's sight ; 
And as she gave my diligence its praise, 
Talk'd of the honours of my future days. 

Oh ! had the venerable matron thought 
Of all the ills by talent often brought ; 75 

Could she have seen me when revolving years 
Had brought me deeper in the vale of tears, 
Then had she wept, and wish'd my wayward 

fate 
Had been a lowlier, an unletter'd state ; 
Wish'd that, remote from worldly woes and 

strife, 80 

Unknown, unheard, I might have pass'd 

through life. 

Where, in the busy scene, by peace -unbless'd, 
Shall the poor wanderer find a place of rest ? 
A lonely mariner on the stormy main, 
Without a hope, the calms of peace to gain ; 85 
Long toss'd by tempest o'er the world's wide 

shore, 
When shall his spirit rest to toil no more ? 
Not till the light foam of the sea shall lave 
The sandy surface of his unwept grave. 
Childhood, to thee I turn, from life's 

alarms, 90 

Serenest season of perpetual calms, — 
Turn with delight, and bid the passions cease, 
And joy to think with thee I tasted peace. 
Sweet reign of innocence when no crime defiles, 
But each new object brings attendant 

smiles ; 95 

When future evils never haunt the sight, 
But all is pregnant with unmix'd delight ; 
To thee I turn, from riot and from noise, 
Turn to partake of more congenial joys. 

'Neath yonder elm, that stands upon the 

moor, 100 

When the clock spoke the hour of labour o'er, 
What clamorous throngs, what happy groups 

were seen, 
In various postures scatt'ring o'er the green ! 
Some shoot the marble, others join the chase 
Of self-made stag, or run the emulous 

race ; 105 

While others, seated on the dappled grass, 
With doleful tales the light-wing'd minutes 

pass. 
Well I remember how, with gesture starch'd, 
A band of soldiers, oft with pride we march'd ; 
For banners, to a tall ash we did bind 110 

Our handkerchiefs, flapping to the whistling 

wind; 
And for our warlike arms we sought the mead, 
And guns and spears we made of brittle reed ; 



49 

Then, in uncouth array, our feats to crown, 
We storm'd some ruin'd pig-sty for a town. 115 

Pleased with our gay disports, the dame wat. 

wont 
To set her wheel before the cottage front, 
And o'er her spectacles would often peer, 
To view our gambols, and our boyish geer. 
Still as she look'd, her wheel kept turning 

round, 120 

With its beloved monotony of sound. 
When tired with play, we'd set us by her side 
(For out of school she never knew to 

chide)— [fame— 

And wonder at her skill — well known to 
For who could match in spinning with the 

dame? 125 

Her sheets, her linen, which she showed with 

pride 
To strangers, still her thriftness testified ; 
Though we poor wights did wonder much in 

troth, 
How 'twas her spinning manufactured cloth. 

Oft would we leave, though well-beloved, our 

play, 130 

To chat at home the vacant hour away. 
Many's the time I've scamper'd down the 

glade, 
To ask the promised ditty from the maid, 
Which well she loved, as well she knew to 

sing, 
While we around her form'd a little ring : 135 
She told of innocence foredoom'd to bleed, 
Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, 
Or little children murder'd as they slept ; 
While at each pause we wrung our hands and 

wept. 
Sad was such tale, and wonder much did 

we, 140 

Such hearts of stone there in the world could be. 
Poor simple wights, ah ! little did we ween 
The ills that wait on man in life's sad scene ! 
Ah, little thought that we ourselves should 

know, 
This world's a world of weeping and of 

wo ! 145 

Beloved moment ! then 'twas first I caught 
The first foundation of romantic thought ; 
Then first I shed bold Fancy's thrilling tear, 
Then first that poesy charm'd mine infant 

ear. 
Soon stored with much of legendary lore, 150 
The sports of Childhood charm'd my soul no 

more. 

Far from the scene of gayety and noise, 
Far, far from turbulent and empty joys, 
I hied me to the thick o'er-arching shade, 
And there, on mossy carpet, listless laid, 15 
G 



50 
While at my feet the rippling runnei ran, 
The days of wild romance antique I'd scan ; 
Soar on the wings of fancy through the air, 
To realms of light, and pierce the radiance 
there. 159 

* * * * 



PART II. 



Tmeke are, who think that childhood does not 

share 
With age the cup, the bitter cup of care : 
Alas! they know not this unhappy truth, 
That every age, and rank, is born to ruth. 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS, 

When to the public school compell'd to go, 
What novel scenes did on my senses flow ! 
There in each breast each active power dilates, 
Which broils whole nations, and convulses 

states; 40 

There reigns by turns alternate, love and hate, 
Ambition burns, and factious rebels prate ; 
And in a smaller range, a smaller sphere, 
The dark deformities of man appear. 
Vet there the gentler virtues kindred claim, 45 
There Friendship lights her pure untainted 

flame, 
There mild Benevolence delights to dwell, 
And sweet Contentment rests without her cell ; 
And there, 'mid many a stormy soul, we find 
The good of heart, the intelligent of mind. 50 



From the first dawn of reason in the mind, 5 
Man is foredoom'd the thorns of grief to find ; 
At every step has farther cause to know, 
The draught of pleasure still is dash'd with 
wo. 

Yet in the youthful breast for ever caught 
With some new object for romantic thought, 10 
The impression of the moment quickly flies, 
And with the morrow every sorrow dies. 

How different manhood ! — then does Thought's 

control 
Sink every pang still deeper in the soul ; 
Then keen Affliction's sad unceasing smart 15 
Becomes a painful resident in the heart ; 
And Care, whom not the gayest can out-brave, 
Pursues its feeble victim to the grave. 
Then, as each long-known friend is summon'd 

hence, 
We feel a void no joy can recompense, 20 

And as we weep o'er every new-made tomb, 
Wish that ourselves the next may meet our 

doom. 

Yes, Childhood, thee no rankling woes pursue, 
No forms of future ill salute thy view, 
No pangs repentant bid thee wake to weep, 25 
But halcyon peace protects thy downy sleep, 
And sanguine Hope, through every storm of 

life, 
Shoots her bright beams, and calms the inter- 
nal strife. 
Yet even round childhood's heart, a thought- 
less shrine, 
Affection's little thread will ever twine ; 30 
And though but frail may seem each tender tie, 
The soul foregoes them but with many a sigh. 
Thus, when the long-expected moment came, 
When forced to leave the gentle-hearted dame, 
Reluctant throbbings rose within my breast, 35 
And a still tear my silent grief express'd. 



'Twas there, O, George! with thee Ilearn'd 

to join 
In Friendship's bands — in amity divine. 
Oh, mournful thought ! — Where is thy spirit 

now ? 
As here I sit on favourite Logar's brow, 
And trace below each well-remember'd 

glade, 55 

Where arm in arm, erewhile with thee I stray'd. 
Where art thou laid — on what untrodden shore, 
Where nought is heard save ocean's sullen 

roar, 
Dost thou in lowly, unlamented state, 
At last repose from all the storms of fate ? 60 
Methinks I see thee struggling with the wave, 
Without oue aiding hand stretch'd out to save ; 
See thee convulsed, thy looks to heaven bend, 
And send thy parting sigh unto thy friend ; 
Or where immeasurable wilds dismay, 65 

Forlorn and sad thou bend'st thy weary way, 
While sorrow and disease with anguish rife, 
Consume apace the ebbing springs of life. 
Again I see his door against thee shut, 
The unfeeling native turn thee from his hut ; 70 
I see thee spent with toil and worn with grief, 
Sit on the grass, and wish the long'd relief; 
Then lie thee down, the stormy struggle o'er, 
Think on thy native land — and rise no more ! 

Oh ! that thou couldst, from thine august 
abode, 75 

Survey thy friend in life's dismaying road, 
That thou couldst see him at this moment here, 
Embalm thy memory with a pious tear, 
And hover o'er him as he gazes round, 
Where all the scenes of infant joys surround. 80 

Yes ! yes ! his spirit's near ! — The whispering 

breeze 
Conveys his voice sad sighing on the trees ; 
And lo ! his form transparent I perceive, 
Borne on the gray mist of the sullen eve : 
He hovers near, clad in the night's dim robe, 85 
While deathly silence reigns upon the globe. 



CHILDHOOD. 



51 



Yet ah ! whence comes this visionary scene ? 
'Tis Fancy's wild aerial dream I ween ; 
By her inspired, when reason takes its flight, 
What fond illusions beam upon the sight ! 90 
She waves her hand, and lo ! what forms 

appear ! 
What magic sounds salute the wondering ear! 
Once more o'er distant regions do we tread, 
And the cold grave jields up its cherish'd 

dead; 
While present sorrow's banish'd far away, 95 
Unclouded azure gilds the placid day, 
Or in the future's cloud-encircled face, 
Fair scenes of bliss to come we fondly trace, 
And draw minutely every little wile, 
Which shall the feathery hours of time be- 
guile. 100 

So when forlorn, and lonesome at her gate, 
The Royal Mary solitary sate, [wave, 

And view'd the moon-beam trembling on the 
And heard the hollow surge her prison lave, 
Towards France's distant coast she bent her 

sight, 105 

For there her soul had wing'd its longing flight ; 
There did she form full many a scheme of joy, 
Visions of bliss unclouded with alloy, 
Which bright through Hope's deceitful optics 

beam'd, 
And all became the surety which it seem'd ; 110 
She wept, yet felt, while all within was calm, 
In every tear a melancholy charm. 

To yonder hill, whose sides, deform'd and 

steep, 
Just yield a scanty sust'nance to the sheep, 
With thee, my friend, I oftentimes have 

sped, 115 

To see the sun rise from his healthy bed ; 
To watch the aspect of the summer morn, 
Smiling upon the golden fields of corn, 
And taste delighted of superior joys, 
Beheld through Sympathy's enchanted eyes : 120 
With silent admiration oft we view'd 
The myriad hues o'er heaven's blue concave 

strew'd ; 
The fleecy clouds, of every tint and shade, 
Round which the silvery sun-beam glancing 

play'd, % 

And the round orb itself, in azure throne, 125 
Just peeping o'er the blue hill's ridgy zone ; 
We mark'd delighted, how with aspect gay, 
Reviving Nature, hail'd returning day ; 
Mark'd how the flowerets rear'd their drooping 

heads, 
And the wild lambkins bounded o'er the 

meads, 130 

While from each tree, in tones of sweet delight, 
The birds sung paeans to the source of light : 
Oft have we watch'd the speckled lark arise, 
Leave his grass bed, and soar to kindred skies, 



And rise, and rise, till the pain'd sight no 
more 135 

Could trace him in his high aerial tour ; 
Though on the ear, at intervals, his song 
Came wafted slow the wavy breeze along ; 
And we have thought how happy were our lot, 
Bless'd with some sweet, some solitary cot, 140 
Where, from the peep of day, till russet eve 
Began in every dell her forms to weave, 
We might pursue our sports from day to day.. 
And in each other's arms wear life away. 

At sultry noon too, when our toils were 
done, 145 

We to the gloomy glen were wont to run ; 
There on the turf we lay, while at our feet 
The cooling rivulet rippled softly sweet : 
And mused on holy theme, and ancient lore, 
Of deeds, and days, and heroes now no 
more ; 150 

Heard, as his solemn harp Isaiah swept, 
Sung wo unto the wicked land— and wept ; 
Or, fancy-led — saw Jeremiah mourn 
In solemn sorrow o'er Judea's urn. 
Then to another shore perhaps w ould rove, 165 
With Plato talk in his Ilyssian grove ; 
Or, wandering where the Thespian palace rose, 
Weep once again o'er fair Jocasta's woes. 

Sweet then to us was that romantic band, 
The ancient legends of our native land — 160 
Chivalric Britoinart, and Una fair, 
And courteous Constance, doom'd to dark 

despair, [talk'd, 

By turns our thoughts engaged ; and oft we 
Of times when monarch superstition stalk'd, 
And when the blood-fraught galliots of 

Rome 165 

Brought the grand Druid fabric to its doom : 
While, where the wood-hung Meinai's waters 

flow, 
The hoary harpers pour'd the strain of wo. 

While thus employ'd, to us how sad the bell 
Which summon'd us to school ! 'Twas Fancy's 

knell, 170 

And, sadly sounding on the sullen ear, 
It spoke of study pale, and chilling fear. 
Yet even then, (for oh ! what chains can bind, 
What powers control, the energies of mind !) 
Even then we soar'd to many a height 

sublime, 175 

And many a day-dream charm'd the lazy time. 

At evening too, how pleasing was our walk, 
Endear'd by Friendship's unrestrained talk, 
When to the upland heights we bent our 

way, 
To view the last beam of departing day ; 180 
How calm was all around ! no playful breeze 
Sigh'd 'mid the wavy foliage of the trees, 



52 



H- K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



13 ut all was still, save when, with drowsy song, 
The gray-fly wound his sullen horn along ; 
And save when, heard in soft, yet merry glee, 
The distant church-bells' mellow harmony j 186 
The silver mirror of the lucid brook, 
That 'mid the tufted broom its still course took j 
The rugged arch, that clasp'd its silent tides, 
With moss and rank weeds hanging down its 

sides : 190 

The craggy rock, that jutted on the sight ; 
The shrieking bat, that took its heavy flight ; 
All, all was pregnant with divine delight. 
We loved to watch the swallow swimming high, 
In the bright azure of the vaulted sky ; 195 
Or gaze upon the clouds, whose coloured pride 
Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, 
And tinged with such variety of shade, 
To the charm' d soul sublimest thoughts con- 

vey'd. 
In these what forms romantic did we trace, 200 
While Fancy led us o'er the realms of space ! 
Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, 
Leading the embattled seraphim to war, 
Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, 
In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky — 205 
Or saw, wide stretching o'er the azure height, 
A ridge of glaciers in mural white, 
Hugely terrific. — But those times are o'er, 
And the fond scene can charm mine eyes no 

more ; 
For thou art gone, and 1 am left below, 210 
Alone to struggle through this world of wo. 

The scene is o'er — still seasons onward roll, 
And each revolve conducts me toward the 

goal ; 
Yet all is blank, without one soft relief, 
One endless continuity of grief ; 215 

And the tired soul, now led to thoughts su- 
blime, 
Looks but for rest beyond the bounds of time. 

Toil on, toil on, ye busy crowds, that pant 
For hoards of wealth which ye will never 

want: 
And, lost to all but gain, with ease resign 220 
The calms of peace and happiness divine ' 



Far other cares be mine — Men little crave 
In this short journey to the silent grave ; 
And the poor peasant, bless'd with peace and 

health, 
1 envy more than Croesus with his wealth. 225 
Yet greive not I, that Fate did not decree 
Paternal acres to await on me ; 
She gave me more, she placed within my breast 
A heart with little pleased—with little bless'd : 
I look around me, where, on every side, 230 
Extensive manors spread in wealthy pride ; 
And could my sight be borne to either zone, 
I should not find one foot of land my own. 

But whither do I wander ? shall the muse, 
For golden baits, her simple theme refuse? 235 
Oh, no ! but while the weary spirit greets 
The fading scenes of childhood's far-gone 

sweets, 
It catches all the infant's wandering tongue, 
And prattles on in desultory song. 
That song must close — the gloomy mists of 

night 240 

Obscure the pale stars' visionary light, 
And ebon darkness, clad in vapoury wet, 
Steals on the welkin in primaeval jet. 

The song must close.— Once more my adverse 

lot 
Leads me reluctant from thischerish'd spot : 245 
Again compels to plunge in busy life, 
And brave the hateful turbulence of strife. 

Scenes of my youth— ere my unwilling feet 
Are turn'd for ever from this loved retreat, 
Ere on these fields, with plenty cover'do'er, 250 
My eyes are closed to ope on them no more, 
Let me ejaculate, to feeling due, 
One long, one last affectionate adieu. 
Grant that, if ever Providence should please 
To give me an old age of peace and ease, 255 
Grant that, in these sequester'd shades, my days 
May wear away in gradual decays ; 
And oh ! ye spirits, who unbodied play, 
Unseen upon the pinions of the day, 
Kind genii of my native fields benign, 260 

Who were * * * * 



FRAGMENT 



ffi(B(DIB»3PIBtt© IBIB&XttA$> 



WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. 



THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES. 



Ding-dong ! ding-dong ! 
Merry, merry, go the bells, 
Ding-dong! ding-dong! 
Over the heath, over the moor, and over the 
dale, 
if Swinging slow with sullen roar," 
Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay ! 
Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away. 



Round the oak, and round the elm, 

Merrily foot it o'er the ground ! 
The sentry ghost it stands aloof, 
So merrily, merrily foot it round. 
Ding-dong! ding-dong! 
Merry, merry go the bells 
Swelling in the nightly gale, 
The sentry ghost, 
It keeps its post, 
And soon, and soon our sports must fail : 
But let us trip the nightly ground, 
While the merry, merry bells ring round. 

3 

Hark ! hark ! the death-watch ticks ! 
See, see, the winding-sheet ! 

Our dance is done, 

Our race is run, 
And we must lie at the alder's feet ! 

Ding-dong, ding-dong, 

Merry, merry go the bells, 
Swinging o'er the weltering wave ! 

And we must seek 

Our death-beds bleak, 
Where the green sod grows upon the grave. 

They vanish — The Goddess of Consumption de- 
scends, habited in a sky-blue Robe, attended by 
mournful Music. 

Come, Melancholy, sister mine. 

Cold the dews, and chill the night ! 
Come from thy dreary shrine ! 

The wan moon climbs the heavenly height, 



And underneath the sickly ray, 
Troops of squalid spectres play, 
And the dying mortals' groan 
Startles the night on her dusky throne. 
Come, come, sister mine ! 
Gliding on the pale moon-shine : 

We'll ride at ease, 

On the tainted breeze, 
And oh! our sport will be divine. 

The Goddess of Melancholy advances out of a 
deep Glen in the rear, habited in Black, and 
covered with a thick Veil — She speaks. 

Sister from my dark abode, 

Where nests the raven, sits the toad, 

Hither I come, at thy command : 

Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 

Sister, sister, join thy hand ! 

I will smooth the way for thee, 

Thou shalt furnish food for me. 

Come, let us speed our way 

Where the troops of spectres play 

To oharnel-houses, church-yards drear, 

Where Death sits with a horrible leer, 

A lasting grin, on a throne of bones, 

And skim along the blue tomb-stones. 

Come, let us speed away, 
Lay our snares, and spread our tether ! 
I will smooth the way for thee, 
Thou shalt furnish food for me ; 
And the grass shall wave 
O'er many a grave, 
Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

Consumption. 

Come, let us speed our way ! 
Join our hands, and spread our tether ! 
I will furnish food for thee, 
Thou shalt smooth the way for me ; 
And the grass shall wave 
O'er many a grave, 
Where youth and beauty sleep together. 

Melancholy. 

Hist, sister, hist ! who comes here ? 
Oh ! I know her by that, tear, 



54. 



By that blue eye's languid glare, 
By her skin, and by her hair : 

She is mine, 

And she is thine, 
Now the deadliest draught prepare. 

Consumption. 

In the dismal night air dress'd, 
I will creep into her breast : 
Flush her cheek, and bleach her skin, 
And feed on the vital fire within. 
Lover, do not trust her eyes, — 
When they sparkle most, she dies ! 
Mother, do not trust her breath, — 
Comfort she will breathe in death ! 
Father, do not strive to save her, — 
She is mine, and I must have her ! 
The coffin must be her bridal bed ; 
The winding-sheet must wrap her head ; 
The whispering winds must o'er her sigh, 
For soon in the grave the maid must lie, 

The worm it will riot 

On heavenly diet, 
When death has deflower'd her eye. 

r They vanish. 

While Consumption speaks, Angelina enters. 

Angelina. 

With* what a silent and dejected pace 
Dost thou, wan Moon ! upon thy way advance 
In the blue welkin's vault ! — Pale wanderer! 
Hast thou too felt the pangs of hopeless love, 
That thus, with such a melancholy grace, 
Thou dost pursue thy solitary course ? 
Has thy Endymion, smooth-faced boy, forsook 
Thy widow'd breast — on which the spoiler oft 
Has nestled fondly, while the silver clouds 
Fantastic pillow'd thee, and the dim night, 
Obsequious to thy will, encurtain'd round 
With its thick fringe thy couch ? — Wan travel- 
ler, 
How like thy fate to mine ! — Yet I have still 
One heavenly hope remaining, which thou 

lack'st ; 
My woes will soon be buried in the grave 
Of kind forgetfulness : — my journey here, 
Though it be darksome, joyless, and forlorn, 
Is yet but short, and soon my weary feet 
Will greet the peaceful inn of lasting rest. 
But thou, unhappy Queen ! artdoom'd to trace 
Thy lonely walk in the drear realms of night, 
While many a lagging age shall sweep be- 
neath 
The leaden pinions of unshaken time ; 



* With how sad stops, O moon ! thou climb'st the skies, 
How silently and with how wan a face I 

Sir P. Sidney, 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 

Though not a hope shall spread its glittering 

hue 
To cheat thy steps along the weary way. 



O that the sum of human happiness 
Should be so trifling, and so frail withal, 
That when possess'd, it is but lessen'd grief; 
And even then there's scarce a sudden gust 
That blows across the dismal waste of life, 
But bears it from the view. — Oh ! who would 

shun [pres3 

The hour that cuts from earth, and fear to 
The calm and peaceful pillows of the grave, 
And yet endure the various ills of life, 
And dark vicissitudes ! — Soon, I hope, I feel, 
Aud am assured, that I shall lay my head, 
My weary aching head, on its last rest, 
And on my lowly bed the grass-green sod 
Will flourish sweetly. — And then they will 

weep 
That one so young, and what they're pleased 

to call 
So beautiful, should die so soon — And tell 
How painful Disappointment's canker'd fang 
Wither'd the rose upon my maiden cheek, 
Oh, foolish ones ! why, I shall sleep so 

sweetly, [selves 

Laid in my darksome grave, that they them- 
Might envy me my rest ! — And as for them, 
Who, on the score of former intimacy, 
May thus remembrance me — they must them- 
Successive fall. [selves 

Around the winter fire 
( When out-a-doors the biting frost congeals, 
And shrill the skater's irons on the pool 
Ring loud, as by the moonlight he performs 
His graceful evolutions) they not long 
Shall sit and chat of older times, and feats 
Of early youth, but silent, one by one, 
Shall drop into their shrouds. — Some, in their 

age, 
Ripe for the sickle ; others young, like me, 
And falling green beneath th' untimely stroke. 
Thus, in short time, in the church-yard for- 
lorn, [down, 
Where I shall lie, my friends will lay them 
And dwell with me, a happy family. 
And oh ! thou cruel, yet beloved youth, 
Who now hast left me hopeless here to mourn, 
Do thou but shed one tear upon my corse, 
And say that I was gentle, and deserved 
A better lover, and I shall forgive 
All, all thy wrongs ; — and then do thou forget 
The hapless Margaret, and be as bless'd 
As wish can make thee — Laugh, and play, 

and sing, 
With thy dear choice, and never think of me. 

Yet hist, I hear a step. — In this dark wood — 



TO THE MUSE. 



55 



TO A FRIEND. 



WRITTEN AT A VERY EARLY AGE. 

I've read, my friend, of Dioclesian, 

And many other noble Grecian, 

Who wealth and palaces resign'd, 

In cots the joys of peace to find ; 

Maximian's meal of turnip-tops, 

(Disgusting food to dainty chops,) 

I've also read of, without wonder ; 

But such a curs'd egregious blunder, 

As that a man of wit and sense, 

Should leave his books to hoard up pence. — 

Forsake the loved Aonian maids, 

For all the petty tricks of trades, 

I never, either now, or long since, 

Have heard of such a piece of nonsense ; 

That one who learning's joys hath felt, 

And at the Muse's altar knelt, 

Should leave a life of sacred leisure, 

To taste the accumulating pleasure ; 

And, metamorphosed to an alley duck, 

Grovel in loads of kindred muck. 

Oh ! 'tis beyond my comprehension ! 

A courtier throwing up his pension, — 

A lawyer working without a fee, — 

A parson giving charity, — 

A truly pious methodist preacher, — 

Are not, egad, so out of nature. 

Had nature made thee half a fool, 

But given thee wit to keep a school, 

I had not stared at thy backsliding : 

But when thy wit I can confide in, 

When well I know thy just pretence 

To solid and exalted sense ; 

When well I know that on thy head 

Philosophy her lights hath shed, 

I stand aghast ! thy virtues sum too, 

And wonder what this world will come to ! 

Yet, whence this strain ? shall I repine 
That thou alone dost singly shine? 
Shall I lament that thou alone, 
Of men of parts, hast prudence known? 



LINES 

ON READING THE POEMS OF WARTON. 

AGE FOURTEEN. 



Oh, Warton ! to thy soothing shell, 
Stretch'd remote in hermit cell, 
Where the brook runs babbling by, 
For ever I could listening lie ; 



And, catcmng all the Muse's fire, 
Hold converse with the tuneful quire. 

What pleasing themes thy page adorn, 
The ruddy streaks of cheerful morn, 
The pastoral pipe, the ode sublime, 
And Melancholy's mournful chime ! 
Each with unwonted graces shines 
In thy ever-lovely lines. 

Thy Muse deserves the lasting meed ; 
Attuning sweet the Dorian reed, 
Now the love-lorn swain complains, 
And sings his sorrows to the plains ; 
Now the Sylvan scenes appear 
Through all the changes of the y tar ; 
Or the elegiac strain 
Softly sings of mental pain, 
And mournful diapasons sail 
On the faintly-dying gale. 

But, ah ! the soothing scene is o'er ! 

On middle flight we cease to soar, 
For now the muse assumes a bolder sweep, 
Strikes on the lyric string her sorrows deep, 

In strains unheard before. 
Now, now the rising fire thrills high, 
Now, now to heaven's high realms we fly, 

And every throne explore ; 
The soul entranced, on mighty wings, 
With all the poet's heat, up springs, 

And loses earthly woes ; 
Till all alarm'd at the giddy height, 
The Muse descends on gentler flight, 

And lulls the wearied soul to soft repose. 



TO THE MUSE. 



WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 



I. 



Ill-fated maid, in whose unhappy train 
Chill poverty and misery are seen, 

Anguish and discontent, the unhappy bane 
Of life, and blackener of each brighter scene. 

Why to thy votaries dost thou give to feel 
So keenly all the scorns — the jeers of life? 
Why not endow them to endure the strife 

With apathy's invulnerable steel, 

Of self-content and ease, each torturing 
wound to heal ? 



II. 



Ah ! who would taste your self-deluding joys, 
That lure the unwary to a wretched doom, 

That bid fair views and flattering hopes arise, 
Then hurl them headlong to a lasting tomb? 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 

which leads thy 



vie- 



5G 

What is the charm 
tims on 

To persevere in paths that lead to wo ? 

What can induce them in that rout to go, 
In which innumerous before have gone, 
And died in misery, poor andwo-begone 



III. 



Yet can I ask what charms in thee are 
found ; 
I, who have drank from thine ethereal rill, 

And tasted all the pleasures that abound 
Upon Parnassus' loved Aonian hill ? 

I, through whose soul the Muses' strains 
aye thrill ! 
Oh ! I do feel the spell with which I'm tied ; 

And though our annals fearful stories tell, 
How Savage languish'd, and how Otway died, 
Yet must I persevere, let whate'er will betide. 



TO LOVE. 

I. 

Why should l blush to own I love ? 
'Tis Love that rules the realms above. 
Why should I blush to say to all, 
That Virtue holds my heart in thrall ? 

II. 

Why should I seek the thickest shade, 
Lest Love's dear secret be betray'd ? 
Why the stern brow deceitful move, 
When I am languishing with love ? 

III. 

Is it weakness thus to dwell 
On passion that I dare not tell ? 
Such weakness I would ever prove ? 
'Tis painful, though 'tis sweet, to love. 



THE WANDERING BOY. 
A SONG. 

I. 

When the winter wind whistles along the wild 
moor, 

And the cottager shuts on the beggar his door ; 

When the chilling tear stands in my comfort- 
less eye, 

Oh, how hard is the lot of the Wandering Boy ! 



II. 



and I have no vest, 

is cold as it beats in mj 



The winter is cold 
And my heart it 

breast ; 
No father, no mother, no kindred have 1, 
For I am a parentless Wandering Boy 

HI. 

Yet I had a home, and I once had a sire, 
A mother who granted each infant desire ; 
Our cottage it stood in a wood-embower'd vale, 
Where the ring-dove would warble its sorrow- 
ful tale. 

IV. 

But my father and mother were summon'd 
away, [prey ; 

And they left me to hard-hearted strangers a 
I fled from their rigour with many a sigh, 
And now I'm a poor little Wandering Boy. 



The wind it is keen, and the snow loads the 

gale, 
And no one will list to my innocent tale ; 
I'll go to the grave where my parents both lie, 
And death shall befriend the poor Wandering 

Boy. 



FRAGMENT. 



The western gale, 



Mild as the kisses of connubial love, 
Plays round my languid limbs, as all dis- 
solved, 
Beneath the ancient elm's fantastic shade 
I lie, exhausted with the noontide heat : 
While rippling o'er his deep- worn pebble bed, 
The rapid rivulet rushes at my feet, 
Dispensing coolness. — On the fringed marge 
Full many a floweret rears its head, — or pink, 
Or gaudy daffodil. — 'Tis here, at noon, [tire, 
The buskin'd wood-nymphs from the heat re- 
And lave them in the fountain ; here secure 
From Pan, or savage satyr, they disport ; 
Or stretch'd supinely on the velvet turf, 
Lull'd by the laden bee, or sultry fly, 
Invoke the God of slumber. * * * 



And, hark ! how merrily, from distant tower, 
Ring round the village bells ! now on the gale 
They rise with gradual swell, distinct aid 

loud ; 
Anon they die upon the pensive ear, 



ODE. 



57 



Melting in faintest music. — They bespeak 
A day of jubilee, and oft they bear, 
Commix'd along the unfrequented shore, 
The sound of village dance and tabor loud, 
Startling the musing ear of Solitude. 

Such is the iocund wake of Whitsuntide s 
When happy Superstition, gabbling eld ! 
Holds her unhurtful gambols. — All the day 
The rustic revellers ply the mazy dance 
On the smooth-shaven green, and then at 

eve 
Commence the harmless rites and auguries ; 
And many a tale of ancient days goes round. 
They tell of wizard seer, whose potent spells 
Could hold in dreadful thrall the labouring 

moon, 
Or draw the fix'd stars from their eminence, 
And still the midnight tempest. — Then anon 
Tell of uncharneird spectres, seen to glide 
Along the lone wood's unfrequented path, 
Startling the 'nighted traveller ; while the 

sound 
Of undistinguish'd murmurs, heard to come 
From the dark centre of the deep'ning glen, 
Struck on his frozen ear. 

Oh, Ignorance ! 
Thou art fall'n man's best friend ! With thee 

he speeds * 

In frigid apathy along his way, 
And never does the tear of agony 
Burn down his scorching cheek ; or the keen 

steel 
Of wounded feeling penetrate his breast. 

Even now, as leaning on this fragrant bank, 

I taste of all the keener happiness 

Which sense refined affords — Even now, my 

heart 
Would fain induce me to forsake the world, 
Throw off these garments, and in shepherd's 

weeds, 
With a small flock, and short suspended reed, 
To sojourn in the woodland. — Then my thought 
Draws such gay pictures of ideal bliss, 
That 1 could almost err in reason's spite, 
And trespass on my judgment. 

Such is life : 
The distant prospect always seems more fair, 
And when attain'd, another still succeeds, 
Far fairer than before,— yet compass'd round 
With the same dangers, and the same dis- 
may. 
And we poor pilgrims in this dreary maze, 
Still discontented, chase the fairy form 
Of unsubstantial Happiness, to find, 
When life itself is sinking in the strife, 
7 Tis but an airy bubble and a cheat. * 



ODE, 



WRITTEN ON WHIT-MONDAY. 

Hark ! how the merry bells ring jocund round, 
And now they die upon the veering breeze ; 

Anon they thunder loud 

Full on the musing ear. 

Waited in varying cadence, by the shore 
Of the still twinkling river, they bespeak 

A day of Jubilee, 

An ancient holiday. 

And, lo ! the rural revels are begun, 
And gaily echoing to the laughing sky, 
On the smooth-shaven green, 
Resounds the voice of Mirth. 

Alas ! regardless of the tongue of Fate, 
That tells them 'tis but as an hour since they 
Who now are in their graves, 
Kept up the Whitsun dance. 

And that another hour, and they must fall 
Like those who went before, and sleep as still 

Beneath the silent sod, 

A cold and cheerless sleep. 

Yet why should thoughts like these intrude to 

scare 
The vagrant Happiness, when she will deign 

To smile upon us here, 

A transient visitor? 



Mortals ! be gladsome while ye 
power, 



have the 
[joy ; 

And laugh and seize the glittering lapse of 
In time the bell will toll 
That warns ye to your graves. 

I to the woodland solitude will bend 
My lonesome way — where Mirth's obstre- 
perous shout 

Shall not intrude to break 

The meditative hour. 

There will I ponder on the state of man, 
Joyless and sad of heart, and consecrate 

This day of jubilee 

To sad reflection's shrine ; 

And I will cast my fond eye far beyond 
This world of care, to where the steeple loud 
Shall rock above the sod, 
Where. I shall sleep in peace. 
H 



58 H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 

CANZONET. 



Maiden ! wrap thy mantle round thee, 

Cold the rain beats on thy breast : 
Why should Horror's voice astound thee ? 
Death can bid the wretched rest ! 
All under the tree 
Thy bed may be, 
And thou mayst slumber peacefully. 

IT. 

Maiden ! once gay Pleasure knew thee ; 

Now thy cheeks are pale and deep : 
Love has been a felon to thee, 
Yet, poor maiden, do not weep : 
There's rest for thee 
All under the tree, 
Where thou wilt sleep most peacefully. 



COMMENCEMENT OF A POEM 

ON DESPAIR. 

Some to Aonian lyres of silver sound 
With winning elegance attune their song, 
Form'd to sink lightly on the soothed sense, 
And charm the soul with softest harmony : 
'Tis then that Hope with sanguine eye is seen 
Roving through Fancy's gay futurity ; 
Her heart light dancing to the sounds of 

pleasure, 
Pleasure of days to come.— Memory, too, then 
Comes with her sister, Melancholy sad, 
Pensively musing on the scenes of youth, 
Scenes never to return.* 
Such subjects merit poets used to raise 
The attic verse harmonious ; but for me 
A dreadlier theme demands my backward 

hand, 
And bids me strike the strings of dissonance 
With frantic energy. 
'Tis wan Despair I sing ; if sing I can 
Of him before whose blast the voice of Song, 
And Mirth, and Hope, and Happiness all fly, 
Nor ever dare return. His notes are heard 
At noon of night, where on the coast of blood, 
The lacerated son of Angola 
Howls forth his sufferings to the moaning 

wind ; 
And, when the awful silence of the night 
Strikes the chill death-dew to the murderer's 

heart, 
He speaks in every conscience-prompted word 
Halfutter'd, half suppress'd— 
'Tis him I sing— Despair— terrific name, 

* Alluding to the two pleasing poems, the Pleasures of 
H-oye and of Memory 



Striking unsteadily the tremulous chord 

Of timorous terror — discord in the sound : 

For to a theme revolting as is this, 

Dare not I woo the maids of harmony, 

Who love to sit and catch the soothing sound 

Of lyre iEolian, or the martial bugle, 

Calling the hero to the field of glory, 

And firing him with deeds of high emprise, 

And warlike triumph : but from scenes like 

mine 
Shrink they affrighted, and detest the bard 
Who dares to sound the hollow tones of horror. 

Hence, then, soft maids, 
And woo the silken zephyr in the bowers 
By Heliconia's sleep-inviting stream : 
For aid like yours I seek not ; 'tis for powers 
Of darker hue to inspire a verse like mine ! 
'Tis work for wizards, sorcerers, and fiends ! 

Hither, ye furious imps of Acheron, 
Nurslings of hell, and beings shunning light, 
And all the myriads of the burning concave ; 
Souls of the damned; — Hither, oh ! come and 

join 
The infernal chorus. 'Tis Despair I sing ! 
He, whose sole tooth inflicts a deadlier pang 
Thau all your tortures join'd. Sing, sing 

Despair ! 
Repeat the sound, and celebrate his power ; 
Unite shouts, screams, and agonizing shrieks, 
Till the loud paean ring through hell's high 

vault, 
And the remotest spirits of the deep 
Leap from the lake, and join the dreadful song. 



TO THE WIND, 

AT MIDNIGHT. 

Not unfamiliar to mine ear, 

Blasts of the night ! ye howl as now 

My shuddering casement loud 
With fitful force ye beat. 

Mine ear has dwelt in silent awe, 
The howling sweep, the sudden rush 
And when the passing gale 
Pour'd deep the hollow dirge. 



THE EVE OF DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 

I. 

Silence of death— portentous calm, 
Those airy forms that yonder fly, 



ATHANATOS 

Denote that your void fore-runs a storm, 

That the hour of fate is nigh. 
1 see, I see, on the dim mist borne, 

The Spirit of battles rear his crest ! 
I st-e, I see, that ere the morn, 

His spear will forsake its hated rest, 
And the widow'd wife of Larrendill will beat 
her naked breast. 



S9 



II. 



O'er the smooth bosom of the sullen deep, 

No softly ruffling zephyrs fly ; 
But Nature sleeps a deathless sleep, 

For the hour of battle is nigh. 
Not a loose leaf waves on the dusky oak, 

But a creeping stillness reigns around ; 
Except when the raven, with ominous croak, 

On the ear does unwelcomely sound. 
I know, I know what this silence means ; 

I know what the raven saith — 
Strike, oh, ye bards ! the melancholy harp, 

For this is the eve of death. 

HI. 

Behold, how along the twilight air 

The shades of our fathers glide ! 
There Morven fled, with the blood-drench'd 
hair, 

And Colma with gray side. 
No gale around its coolness flings, 

Yet sadly sigh the gloomy trees ; 
And, hark ! how the harp's unvisited strings 

Sound sweet, as if swept by a whispering 
breeze ! 
'Tis done ! the sun he has set in blood ! 

He will never set more to the brave ; 
Let us pour to the hero the dirge of death — 

For to-morrow he hies to the grave. 



THANATOS. 

Oh ! who would cherish life, 
And cling unto this heavy clog of clay, 

Love this rude world of strife, 
Where glooms and tempests cloud the fairest 
day; 
And where, 'neath outward smiles, 
Conceal'd, the snake lies feeding on its prey, 
Where pit-falls lie in every flowery way, 
And sirens lure the wanderer to their 
wiles ! 
Hateful it is to me, 
Its riotous railings and revengeful strife ; 
I'm tired with all its screams and brutal 
shouts 
Dinning the ear ;— away— away with life ! 



And welcome, oh ! thou silent maid, 
Who in some foggy vault art laid, 
Where never day-light's dazzling ray 
Comes to disturb thy dismal sway ; 
And there amid unwholsome damps dost 
sleep, 

In such forgetful slumbers deep, 

That all thy senses stupified, 

Are to marble petrified. 

Sleepy Death, I welcome thee ! 

Sweet are thy calms to misery. 

Poppies I will ask no more, 

Nor the fatal hellebore ; 

Death is the best, the only cure, 

His are slumbers ever sure. 

Lay me in the Gothic tomb, 

In whose solemn fretted gloom 

I may lie in mouldering state, 

With all the grandeur of the great : 

Over me, magnificent, 

Carve a stately monument : 

Then thereon my statue lay, 

With hands in attitude to pray, 

And angels serve to hold my head, 

Weeping o'er the father dead. 

Duly too at close of day, 

Let the pealing organ play ; 

And while the harmonious thunders roll, 

Chant a vesper to my soul : 

Thus how sweet my sleep will be, 

Shut out from thoughtful misery ! 



ATHANATOS. 

Away with Death — away 
With all her sluggish sleeps and chillii 
damps, 
Impervious to the day, 
Where Nature sinks into inanity. 
How can the soul desire 
Such hateful nothingness to crave, 
And yield with joy the vital fire, 
To moulder in the grave ! 

Yet mortal life is sad, 
Eternal storms molest its sullen sky 

And sorrows ever rife 
Drain the sacred fountain dry — 
Away with mortal life ! 
But, hail the calm reality, 
The seraph Immortality ! 
Hail the Heavenly bowers of peace ! 
Where all the storms of passion cease. 
Wild Life's dismaying struggle o'er, 
The wearied spirit weeps no more ; 
But wears the eternal smile of joy, 
Tasting bliss without alloy. 
Welcome, welcome, happy bowers, 
Where no passing tempest lowers ; 



60 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



But the azure heavens display 

The everlasting smile of day ; 

Where the choral seraph choir, 

Strike to praise the harmonious lyre ; 

And the spirit sinks to ease, 

Lull'd by distant symphonies. 

Oh ! to think of meeting there 

The friends whose graves received c 

tear, 
The daughter loved, the wife adored, 
To our widow'd arms restored ; 
And all the joys which death did sever. 
Given to us again for ever ! 
Who would cling to wretched life, 
And hug the poison'd thorn of strife ; 
Who would not long from earth to fly, 
A sluggish senseless lump to lie, 
When the glorious prospect lies 
Full before his raptured eyes ? 



MUSIC. 



Written between the Ages of Fourteen and Fifteen, 
with a few subsequent verbal Alterations. 

Music, all powerful o'er the human mind, 
Can still each mental storm, each tumult 
calm, [clined, 

Soothe anxious Care on sleepless couch re- 
And e'en fierce Anger's furious rage dis- 
arm. 

At her command the various passions lie ; 
She stirs to battle, or she lulls to peace ; 
Melts the charm'd soul to thrilling ecstacy, 
- And bids the jarring world's harsh clangour 
cease. 

Her martial sounds can fainting troops inspire 
With strength unwonted, and enthusiasm 
raise ; 
Infuse new ardour, and with youthful fire 
Urge on the warrior gray with length of days. 

Far better she when with her soothing lyre 
She charms the falchion from the savage 
grasp, 

And melting into pity vengeful Ire, 
Looses the bloody breast-plate's iron clasp. 

With her in pensive mood I long to roam, 
At midnight's hour, or evening's calm de- 
cline, [foam, 

And thoughtful o'er the falling streamlet's 
In calm Seclusion's hermit-walks recline. 

Whilst mellow sounds from distant copse arise, 
Of softest flute or reeds harmonic join'd, 



With rapture thrill'd each worldly passion dies, 
And pleased Attention claims the passive 
mind. 

Soft through the dell the dying strains retire, 
Then burst majestic in the varied swell ; 

Now breathe melodious as the Grecian lyre, 
Or on the ear in sinking cadence dwell. 

Romantic sounds ! such is the bliss ye give, 
That heaven's bright scenes seem bursting on 
the soul, 

With joy I'd yield each sensual wish, to live 
For ever 'neath your undefined control. 

Oh ! surely melody from heaven was sent, 
To cheer the soul when tired with human 
strife, 

To, soothe the wayward heart by sorrow rent, 
And soften down the rugged road of life. 



ODE, 

TO THE HARVEST MOON. 



Cum ruit imbriferum ver : 



Spicea jam campis cum messis inhorruit, et cum 
Frumenta in viridi stipula lactentia turgent : 

Cuncta tibi Cererem pubes agrestis adoret. 

Virgil. 



Moon of Harvest, herald mild 
Of plenty, rustic labour's child, 
Hail ! oh hail ! I greet thy beam, 
As soft it trembles o'er the stream, 
And gilds the straw-thatch'd hamlet wide, 
Where Innocence and Peace reside ; 
'Tis thou that glad'st with joy the rustic throng, 
Promptest the tripping dance, th' exhilarating 
song. 

Moon of Harvest, I do love 

O'er the uplands now to rove, 

While thy modest ray serene 

Gilds the wide surrounding scene ; 

And to watch thee riding high 

In the blue vault of the sky, 
Where no thin vapour intercepts thy ray, 
But in unclouded majesty thou walkest on thy 
way. 

Pleasing 'tis, oh ! modest Moon ! 
Now the Night is at her noon, 
'Neath thy sway to musing lie, 
While around the zephyrs sigh, 
Fanning soft the sun-tann'd wheat, 
Ripen'd by the summer's heat ; 



SONG. 



Picturing all the rustic's joy 

When boundless plenty greets his eye, 

And thinking soon, 

Oh, modest Moon I 
How many a female eye will roam 

Along the road, 

To see the load, 
The last dear load of harvest-home. 

Storms and tempests, floods and rains, 
Stern despoilers of the plains, 
Hence away, the season flee, 
Foes to light-heart jollity : 
May no winds careering high, 
Drive the clouds along the sky, 
But may all nature smile with aspect boon, 
When in the heavens thou show'st thy face, 
oh, Harvest Moon ! 

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies, 

The husbandman, with sleep-seaFd eyes ; 

He dreams of crowded barns, and round 

The yard he hears the flail resound ; 

Oh ! may no hurricane destroy 

His visionary views of joy ! 
God of the Winds! oh, hear his humble pray'r, 
And while the moon of harvest shines, thy 
blustering whirlwind spare. 

Sons of luxury, to you 

Leave I Sleep's dull power to woo: 

Press ye still the downy bed, 

While feverish dreams surround your head; 

1 will seek the woodland glade, 

Penetrate the thickest sbade, 

Wrapp'd in Contemplation's dreams, 

Musing high on holy themes, 

While on the gale 

Shall softly sail 
The nightingale's enchanting tune, 

And oft my eyes 

Shall grateful rise 
To thee, the modest Harvest Moon ! 



SONG. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FOURTEEN. 

I. 

Softly, softly blow, ye breezes, 

Gently o'er my Edwy fly ! 
Lo ! he slumbers, slumbers sweetly ; 
Softly, zephyrs, pass him by ! 
My love is asleep, 
He lies by the deep, 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 



61 



II. 



I have cover'i him with rushes, 

Water-flags, and branches dry. 
Edwy, long have been thy slumbers ; 
Edwy, Edwy, ope thine eye ! 
My love is asleep, 
He lies by the deep, 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

III. 

Still he sleeps ; he will not waken, 

Fastly closed is his eye ; 
Paler is his cheek, and chiller 
Than the icy moon on high. 
Alas ! he is dead, 
He has chose his death-bed 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

IV. 

Is it, is it so, my Edwy ? 

Will thy slumbers never fly ? 
Couldst thou think I would survive thee ? 
No, my love, thou bid'st me die. 
Thou bid'st me seek 
Thy death-bed bleak 
All along where the salt waves sigh. 

V. 

I will gently kiss thy cold lips, 

On thy breast I'll lay my head, 
And the winds shall sing our death-dirge, 
And our shroud the waters spread ; 
The moon will smile sweet, 
And the wild wave will beat, 
Oh ! so softly o'er our lonely bed. 



SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S 
SONG 

TO THE NIGHT. 

Thou, spirit of the spangled night! 
I woo thee from the watch-tower high, 
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark 
Of lonely mariner. 

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds, 
The distant main is moaning low ; 
Come, let us sit and weave a song — 
A melancholy song ! 

Sv/eet is the scented gale of morn, 
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam, 
But sweeter far the solemn calm, 

That marks thy mournful reign. 



62 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



I've pass'd here many a lonely year, 
And never human voice have heard ; 
I've pass'd here many a lonely year 
A solitary man. 

And I have Iinger'd in the shade, 
From sultry noon's hot beam ; and I 
Have knelt before my wicker door, 
To sing my evening song. 

And I have hail'd the gray morn high, 
On the blue mountain's misty brow, 
And tried to tune my little reed 
To hymns of harmony. 

But never could I tune my reed, 
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet, 
As when upon the ocean shore 

I hail'd thy star-beam mild. 

The day-spring brings not joy to me, 
The moon it whispers not of peace \, 
But oh ! when darkness robes the heavens, 
My woes are mix'd with joy. 

And then I talk, and often think 
Aerial voices answer me ; 
And oh ! I am not then alone — 
A solitary man. 

And when the blustering winter winds 
Howl in the woods that clothe my cave, 
I lay me on my lonely mat, 

And pleasant are my dreams. 

And Fancy gives me back my wife ; 
And Fancy gives me back my child ; 
She gives me back my little home, 
And all its placid joys. 

Then hateful is the morning hour, 
That calls me from the dream of bliss,* 
To find myself still lone, and hear 

The same dull sounds again. 

• 
The deep-toned winds, the moaning sea, 
The whispering of the boding trees, 
The brook's eternal flow, and oft 

The Condor's hollow scream. 



SONNET. 

Sweet to the gay of heart is Summer's smile, 
Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring ; 

But ah ! my soul far other scenes beguile, 
Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows 
fling. 



Is it for me to strike the Idalian string- 
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire, 
While in my ears the howls of furies ring 

And melancholy wastes the vital fire ? 
Away with thoughts like these — To some lone 
cave 
Where howls the shrill blast, and where 
sweeps the wave, 
Direct my steps ; there, in the lonely drear, 
I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse 
Till through my soul shall Peace her balm 
infuse, 
And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. 



BEING CONFINED TO SCHOOL 



ONE PLEASANT MORNING IN SPRING. 



WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN. 

The morning sun's enchanting rays 
Now call forth every songster's praise ; 
Now the lark, with upward flight, 
Gayly ushers in the light ; 
While wildly warbling from each tree, 
The birds sing songs to Liberty. 

But for me no songster sings, 
For me no joyous lark up-springs ; 
For I, confined in gloomy school, 
Must own the pedant's iron rule, 
And, far from sylvan shades and bowers, 
In durance vile must pass the hours ; 
There con the scholiast's dreary lines, 
Where no bright ray of genius shines, 
And close to rugged learning cling, 
While laughs around the jocund spring. 

How gladly would my soul forego 
All that arithmeticians know, 
Or stiff grammarians quaintly teach, 
Or all that industry can reach, 
To taste each morn of all the joys 
That with the laughing sun arise ; 
And unconstrain'd to rove along 
The bushy brakes and glens among; 
And woo the muse's gentle power, 
In unfrequented rural bower ! 
But, ah ! such heaven-approaching joys 
Will never greet my longing eyes ; 
Still will they cheat in vision fine, 
Yet never but in fancy shine. 

Oh, that I were the little wren 

That shrilly chirps from yonder glen ! 



TO THE ROSEMARY. 



63 



Oh, far away I then would rove, 
To some secluded bushy grove ; 
There hop and sing with careless glee, 
Hop and sing at liberty ; 
And till death should stop my lays, 
Far from men would spend my days. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 

Thee do I own, the prompter of my joys, 
The soother of my cares, inspiring peace ; 
And I will ne'er forsake thee. — Men may rave, 
And blame and censure me, that I don't tie 
My every thought down to the desk, and spend 
The morning of my life in adding figures 
With accurate monotony : that so 
The good things of the world may be my lot, 
And I might taste the blessedness of wealth : 
But, oh ! I was not made for money-getting ; 
For me no much-respected plum awaits, 
Nor civic honour, envied. — For as still 
I tried to cast with school dexterity 
The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts 
Would quick revert to many a woodland 
haunt, [pen 

Which fond remembrance cherish'd, and the 
Dropp'd from my senseless fingers as 1 pic- 
tured, [Trent 
In my mind's eye, how on the shores of 
I erewhile wander'd with my early friends 
In social intercouse. And then Fd think 
How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, 
One from the other, scatter'd o'er the globe ; 
They were set down with sober steadiness, 
Each to his occupation. I alone, 
A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, 
Remained unsettled, insecure, and veering 
With every wind to every point o' th' com- 
pass. 
Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge 
In fits of close abstraction ; yea, amid 
The busy bustling crowds could meditate, 
And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues 

away 
Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. 
Ay, Contemplation, even in earliest youth 
I woo'd thy heavenly influence ! I would walk 
A weary way when all my toils were done, 
To lay myself at night in some lone wood, 
And hear the sweet song of the "nightingale. 
Oh, those were times of happiness, and still 
To memory doubly dear ; for growing years 
Had not then taught me man was made to 

mourn ; 
And a short hour of solitary pleasure, 
Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense - 
For all the hateful bustles of the day. 



My op'ning mind was ductile then, and plastic 
And soon the marks of care were worn away, 
While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, 
Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. 
But it has now assum'd its character ; 
Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, 
Like the firm oak, would sooner break than 

bend. 
Yet still, oh, Contemplation ! I do love 
To indulge thy solemn musings ; still the same 
With thee alone I know to melt and weep, 
In thee alone delighting. Why along 
The dusky tract of commerce should I toil, 
When, with an easy competence content, 
I can alone be happy ; where with thee 
I may enjoy the loveliness of Nature, 
And loose the wings of Fancy ? — Thus alone 
Can I partake of happiness on earth ; 
And to be happy here is man's chief end, 
For to be happy he must needs be good. 



TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* 



l. 



Sweet scented flower ! who are wont to bloom 

On January's front severe, 

And o'er the wintry desert drear 
To waft thy waste perfume ! 
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 
And I will bind thee round my brow ; 

And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
I'll weave a melancholy song : 
And sweet the strain shall be and long, 

The melody of death. 



Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell 
With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
And throw across the desert gloom 
A sweet decaying smell. 

Come, press my lips, and lie with me 

Beneath the lowly alder tree, 
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, 

And not a care shall dare intrude, 

To break the marble solitude, 
So peaceful and so deep. 



3. 



And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, 
Moans hollow in the forest trees, 
And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
Mysterious music dies. 

* The Rosemary buds in January. It is theflowerco: 
monly put in the coffins of the dead. 



64 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine, 
Jt warns me to the lonely shrine, 
The cold turf altar of the dead; 

My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 

Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. 



TO THE MORNING. 



WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. 

Beams of the day -break faint ! I hail 
Your dubious hues, as on the robe 
Of night, which wraps the slumbering 
globe, 
I mark your traces pale. 
Tired with the taper's sickly light, 
And with the wearying, number'd night, 
1 hail the streaks of morn divine : 
And lo ! they break between the dewy 
wreaths 
That round my rural casement twine : 
The fresh gale o'er the green lawn breathes ; 
It fans my feverish brow, — it calms the mental 
strife, [life. 

And cheerily re-illumes the lambent flame of 

The lark has her gay song begun, 

She leaves her grassy nest, 
And soars till the unrisen sun 

Gleams on her speckled breast. 
Now let me leave my restless bed, 
And o'er the spangled uplands tread ; 
Now through the custom'd wood-walk 
wend; 
By many a green lane lies my way, 

Where high o'er head the wild briars 
bend, 
Till on the mountain's summit gray, 
I sit me down, and mark the glorious dawn 
of day. 

Oh, Heaven ! the soft refreshing gale 

It breathes into my breast ! 
My sunk eye gleams ; my cheek, so pale, 

Is with new colours dress'd. 

Blithe Health ! thou soul of life and ease ! 
Come thou too, on the balmy breeze, 

Invigorate my frame : 
I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, 
With thee the distant clime will trace, 

Beyond those clouds of flame. 

Above, below, what charms unfold 
In all the varied view ! 



Before me all is burnish'ii gold, 

Behind the twilight's hue. 
The mists which on old Night await, 
Far to the west they hold their state, 
They shun the clear blue face of Morn ; 
Along the fine cerulean sky, 
The fleecy clouds successive fly, 
While bright prismatic beams their shadowy 
folds adorn. 

And hark ! the Thatcher has begun 

His whistle on the eaves, 
And oft the Hedger's bill is heard 

Among the rustling leaves. 
The slow team creaks upon the road, 

The noisy whip resounds, 
The driver's voice, his carol blithe, 
The mower's stroke, his whetting sithe, 

Mix with the morning's sounds. 

Who would not rather take his seat 

Beneath these clumps of trees, 
The early dawn of day to greet, 

And catch the healthy breeze, 
Than on the silken couch of Sloth 

Luxurious to lie ? 
Who would not from life's dreary waste 
Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, 

An interval of joy ? 

To him who simply thus recounts 

The morning's pleasures o'er, 
Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close 

To ope on him no more. 
Yet, Morning ! unrepining still 

He'll greet thy beams awhile ; 
And surely thou, when o'er his grave 
Solemn the whispering willows wave, 

Wilt sweetly on him smile ; 
And the pale glow-worm's pensive light 
Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear 
moonless night. 



MY OWN CHARACTER. 

Addressed (during Illness) to a Lady. 

Dear Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf, 
To give you a sketch — ay, a sketch of myself. 
Tis a pitiful subject, I frankly confess, 
And one it would puzzle a painter to dress ; 
But however, here goes, and as sure as a gun, 
I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun ; 
For I know, for my Fanny, before I address 

her, 
She wont be a cynical father confessor. 



ODE ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Come, come, 'twill not do ! put that purling 
brow down ; [frown. 

You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to 
Well, first I premise, it's my honest conviction, 
That my breast is a chaos of all contradiction ; 
Religious — Deistic — now loyal and warm ; 
Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform : 
This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus ; 
Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus ; 
Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a 

rattle ; 
Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle; 
Now moody and sad, now unthinkingand gay. 
To all points of the compass I veer in a day. And 



65 



ODE 



ON DISAPPOINTMENT. 



I. 



I'm proud and, disdainful to Fortune's gay 
child, [mild : 

But to Poverty's offspring submissive and 

As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute ; 

Then as for politeness — oh ! dear — I'm a brute ! 

I show no respect where I never can feel it ; 

And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal 
it; 

And so in the suite, by these laudable ends, 

I've a great many foes, and a very few friends. 

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can 

feel 
That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd 

like steel. 
It can love (can it not ?) — it can hate, I am sure ; 
And it's friendly enough, though in friends it 

be poor. [bleeds ; 

For itself though it bleed not, for others it 
If ithave not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's theseeas: 
And though far from faultless, or even so-so, 
1 think it may pass as our worldly things go. 

Well, I've told you my frailties without any 

gloss ; 
Then as to my virtues, I'm quite at a loss ! 
1 think I'm devout, and yet I can't say, 
But in process of time 1 may get the wrong 

way. 
I'm a general lover, if that's commendation, 
And yet can't withstand, you know whose fas- 
cination, [vices, 
But I find that amidst all my tricks and de- 
In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices ; 
So as for the good, why, if I possess it, 
I am not yet learned nnough to express it. 

You yourself must examine the lovelier side, 
And after your every art you have tried, 
Whatever my faults, I may venture to say, 
Hypocrisy never will come in your way. 
lam upright, I hope; lam downright, I'm 
clear ! [cere ; 
And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sin- 
And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast, 
'Tis now when I swear * * 



Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Not in thy terrors clad ; 
Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
The restless and the bad. 
But I recline 
Beneath thy shrine, 
round my brow resign'd, thy peaceful 
cypress twine. 



Though Fancy flies away 

Before thy hollow tread, 
Yet meditation, in her cell, 
Hears with faint eye, the lingering knell, 
That tells her hopes are dead ; 
And though the tear 
By chance appear, 
Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not 
laid here. 



Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Though from Hope's summit huiTd, 
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, 
For thou severe were sent from heaven 
To wean me from the world : 
To turn my eye 
From vanity, 
And point to scenes of bliss that never, never 
die. 



What is this passing scene ? 

A peevish April day ! 
A little sun — a little rain, ♦ 

And then night sweeps along the plain, 
And all things fade away. 
Man (soon discuss'd) 
Yields up his trust, 
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the 
dust. 

5. 

Oh, what is Beauty's power ? 

It flourishes and dies ; 
Will the cold earth its silence break s 
To tell how soft how smooth a cheek 
Beneath its surface lies? 
Mute, mute is all 
O'er Beauty's fall ; 
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in 
her pall. 



66 



d. 



The most beloved on earth 

Not long survives to-day ; 
So music past is obsolete, 
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
But now 'tis gone away. 
Thus does the shade 
In memory fade, 
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is 
laid 

7. 

Then since this world is vain, 

And volatile, and fleet, 
Why should I lay up earthly joys, 
Where dust corrupts, and moth destroys, 
And cares and sorrows eat? 
Why fly from ill 
With anxious skill, 
When soon this hand will freeze, this throb- 
bing heart be still ? 

8. 

Come, Disappointment, come ! 

Thou art not stern to me ; 
Sad Monitress ! I own thy sway, 
A votary sad in early day, 
1 bend my knee to thee. 
From sun to sun 
My race will run, 
I only bow, and say, My God, thy will be done! 

On another paper are a few lines, written 
probably in the freshness of his disappoint- 
ment. 

I dream no more — the vision flies away, 

And Disappointment * * * * 

There fell my hopes — I lost my all in this, 

My cherish'd all of visionary bliss. 

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below ; 

Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome wo. 

Plunge me in glooms • * •* * 

His health soon sunk under these habits ; 
he became pale and thin, and at length had a 
sharp fit of sickness. Or. 1 his recovery he 
wrote the following lines in the church-yard 
of his favourite village. 



LINES 

W1UTTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD, 

ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 

Here would I wish to sleep.— This is the spot 
Which 1 have long mark'd out to lay my bones 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 

Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, 
Beneath this Yew I would be sepulchred. 
It is a lovely spot ! The sultry sun, 
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly 
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the 

zephyr 
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent, 
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook 
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance, did 

Gray 
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wantou'd. 



Come, I will sit me down and meditate, 
For I am wearied with my summer's walk ; 
And here I may repose in silent ease ; 
And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's 

o'er, 
My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may fiud 
The haven of its rest — beneath this sod 
Perchance may sleep it sw r eefiy, sound as 

death. 

I would not have my corpse cemented down 
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor 

earth-worm 
Of its predestined dues ; no, I would lie 
Beneath a little hillock, grass-o'ergrown, 
Swathed down with oziers, just as sleep the 

cottiers. 
Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave ; 
But there at eve may some congenial soul 
Duly resort, and shed a pious tear, 
The good man's benison — no more I ask. 
And, oh ! (if heavenly beings may look down 
From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit, 
Upon this little dim-discover'd spot, 
The earth,) then will I cast a glance below, 
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm : 
And I will weep too, and will bless the wan- 
derer. 
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine 
In this low-thoughted world of darkling wo, 
But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies 

Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body, 
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth, 
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery, 
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze ! 
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom, 
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond 
His narrow verge of being, and provide 
A decent residence for its clayey shell, 
Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay 
His body in the city burial-place, 
To be thrown up again by some rude Sexton, 
And yield its narrow house another tenant, 
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust, 
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp, 
Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness ? 
No, 1 will lay me in the village ground ; 



THE CHRISTIAD. 



67 



There are the dead respected. The poor hiad, 
Unlettered as he is, would scorn to invade 
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen 
The labourer, returning from his toil, 
Here stay his steps, and call his children 

round, 
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured 

rhymes, 
And, in his rustic manner, moralize. 
I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd 

spoken, 
With head uncovered, his respectful manner, 
And all the honours which he paid the grave, 
And thought on cities, where even cemeteries, 
Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality, 
Are not protected from the drunken inso- 
lence 



Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc. 
Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may 

close ! 
Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones 
May lie — or in the city's crowded bounds, 
Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of 

waters, 
Or left a prey on some deserted shore 
To the rapacious cormorant, — yet still, 
(For why should sober reason cast away 
A thought which soothes the soul ?) — yet still 

my spirit 
Shall wing its way to these my native regions, 
And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think 
Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew 
In solemn rumination ; and will smile 
With joy that I have got my long'd release. 



vuib (ommasiwLASB>9 



A DIVINE POEM. 



BOOK I. 



I. 



I sing the Cross ! — Ye white-robed angel 
choirs, 
Who know the chords of harmony to sweep, 
Ye who o'er holy David's varying wires 
Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to 

keep, 
Oh, now descend ! and with your harpings 
deep, 
Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream 
Of music, such as soothes the saint's last 
sleep, 
Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, 
And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious 
theme. 



II. 



Mourn ! Salem, mourn ! low lies thine hum- 
bled state, 
Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the 
ground ! 
Fallen is thy pride ! — Thine halls are deso- 
late ! 
Where erst was heard the timbrel's 
sprightly sound, 



And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly 

round, 

There breeds the wild fox lonely, — and 

aghast [found, 

Stands the mute pilgrim at the void pro- 

Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying 

blast [waste. 

Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless 



III. 



It is for this, proud Solyma ! thy towers 
Lie crumbling in the dust ; for this for- 
lorn 
Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, 
While stern Destruction laughs, as if in 
scorn, [born ; 

That thou didst dare insult God's eldest 
And, with most bitter persecuting ire, 
Pursued his footsteps till the last day- 
dawn [fiie 
Rose on his fortunes — and thou saw'st the 
That came to light the world, in one great 
flash expire. 

IV. 

Oh ! for a pencil dipp'd in living light, 
. To paint the agonies that Jesus bore ! 



68 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



Oh ! for the long-lost harp of Jesse's might, 
To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore 

to shore; 
While seraph hosts the lofty paean pour, 
And Heaven enraptured lists the loud ac- 
claim ! 
May a frail mortal dare the theme ex- 
plore ? 
May he to human ears his weak song 
frame ? [name ? 

Oh ! may he dare (o sing Messiah's glorious 



V. 



Spirits of pity ! mild Crusaders, come ! 
Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel 
float, 
And give him eloquence who else were dumb, 
And raise to feeling and to fire his note ! 
And thou, Urania ! who dost still devote 
Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine, 
"Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah 
wrote, [thine, 

Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of 
And clothe him for the fight with energy di- 
vine. 



VI. 



When from the temple's lofty summit prone, 

Satan o'ercome, fell down ; and 'throned 

there, [shone ; 

The Son of God confess'd, in splendor 

Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the 

air, 
Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair, 

* * # 

Fled the stern king of Hell— and with 
the glare 
Of gliding meteors, ominous and red, 
Shot athwart the clouds that gathered round 
his head. 

VII. 

Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which 
late 
The rude Massagetae adored, he bent 
His northering course, while round, in dusky 
state, 
The assembling fiends their summonM 

troops augment ; 
Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they 
went, 
While, as they pass'd to regions more severe, 
The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud 
lament 
The solitary gale, and, fill'd with fear, 
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near. 



VIII. 



Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, 
Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes 
around, 
There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, 
Form a gigantic hall, where never sound 
Startled dull Silence' ear, save when pro- 
found 
The smoke-frost mutter'd : there drear Cold 
for aye [mound, 

Thrones him, — and, fix'd on his primaeval 
Ruin, the giant, sits ; while stern Dismay 
Stalks like some wo-struck man along the 
desert way. 

IX. 

In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair, 

No sweet remain of life encheers the sight ; 

The dancing heart's blood in an instant there 

Would freeze to marble. — Mingling day 

and night 
(Sweet interchange, which makes our 
labours light,) [skies 

Are there unknown ; while in the summer 
The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly 
height, 
Nor ever sets till from the scene he flies, 
And leaves the long bleak night of half the 
year to rise. 

X. 

'Twas there, yet shuddering from the burning 
lake, 
Satan had fix'd their next consistory, 
When parting last he fondly hoped to shake 
Messiah's constancy, — and thus to free 
The powers of darkness from the dread 
decree 
Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent 
The unerring ways of Him whose eye can 
see 
The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent, 
Discern the colours clear of every dark event. 



XI. 



Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid 
flight, 
And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall, 
Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful 
light, [call. 

Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's 
He, meanwhile, downward, with a sullen 
fall, [sound 

Dropp'd on the echoing ice. Instant the 
Of their broad vans was hush'd, and o'er 
the hall, 
Vast and obscure, the gloomy cohorts bound, 
Till, wedged in ranks, the seat of Satan they 
surround. 



CHRISTIAD. 



69 



XII. 

High on a solium of the solid wave, 
PrankM with rude shapes by the fantastic 
frost, 
He stood iu silence; — now keen thoughts 
engrave [toss'd, 

Park figures on his front; and, tempest- 
He fears to say that every hope is lost. 
Meanwhile the multitude as death are mute : 

So, ere the tempest on Malacca's coast, 
Sweet Quiet, gently touching her soft lute, 
Sings to the whispering waves the prelude to 
dispute. 

XIII. 

At length collected, o'er the dark Divan 
The arch-fiend glanced, as by the Boreal 
blaze [began 

Their downcast brows were seen, and thus 
His fierce harangue : — " Spirits ! our better 
days _ [praise 

Are now elapsed ; Moloch and BeliaFs 
Shall sound no more in groves by myriads 
trod. 
Lo ! the light breaks ! — The astonished 
nations gaze ! 
For us is lifted high the avenging rod ! 
For, spirits, this is He, — this is the Son of 
God 

XIV. 

What then ! — shall Satan's spirit crouch to 

fear? 

Shall he who shook the pillars of God's 

reign 

Drop from his unnerved arm the hostile spear ? 

Madness ! The very thought would make 

me fain 

To tear the spanglets from yon gaudy plain, 

And hurl them at their Maker !— Fix'd as fate 

I am his Foe ! — Yea, though his pride 

should deign 

To soothe mine ire with half his regal state, 

Still would I burn with fix'd, unalterable hate. 

XV. 

Now hear the issue of my cursM emprize, 
When from our last sad synod I took 
flight, 
Buoy'd with false hopes, in some deep- 
laid disguise, 
To tempt this vaunted Holy One to write 
His own self-condemnation ; in the plight 
Of aged man in the lone wilderness, 

Gathering a few stray sticks, I met his 

sight, [guess 

And, leaning on my staff, seem'd much to 

What cause could mortal bring to that forlorn 

recess. 



XVI. 



Then thus in homely guise I featly framed 
My lowly speech :— ' Good Sir, what leads 
this way 
Your wandering steps ? must hapless chance 
be blamed [stray? 

That you so far from haunt of mortals 
Here have I dwelt for many a lingering day, 
Nor trace of man have seen ; but how ! 
methought [raj 1 

Thou wert the youth on whom God's holy 
I saw descend in Jordan, when John taught 
That he to fallen man the saving promise 
brought.' 

XVII. 

' I am that man/ said Jesus, '* I am He ! 
But truce to questions — Canst thou point 
my feet 
To some low hut, if haply such there be 
In this wild labyrinth, where I may meet 
With homely greeting, and may sit and eat ; 
For forty days I have tarried fasting here, 

Hid in the dark glens of this lone retreat, 
And now I hunger ; and my fainting ear 
Longs much to greet the sound of fountains 
gushing near/ 

XVIII. 

Then thus I answer'd wily : — "' If, indeed, 
Son of our God thou be'st, what need to 
seek 
For food from men? — Lo ! on these flint 
stones feed, 
Bid them be bread ! Open thy lips and 

speak, 
And living rills from yon parch'd rock 
will break.' 
Instant as I had spoke, his piercing eye 
Fix'd on my face ; — the blood forsook my 
cheek, [by ; 

1 could not bear his gaze ; — my mask slipp'd 
I would have shunn'd his look, but had not 
power to fly. 

XIX. 

Then he rebuked me with the holy word- 
Accursed sounds ! but now my native 
pride 
Return'd, and by no foolish qualm deterr'd, 
1 bore him from the mountain's woody side, 
Up to the summit, where extending wide 
Kingdoms and cities, palaces and fanes, 
Bright sparkling in the sunbeams, were 
descried, 
And in gay dance, amid luxuriant plains, 
Tripp'd to the jocund reed the emasculated 
swains. 



70 



H. K. WHITE'S POEMS. 



XX. 



XXIV. 



'Behold/ I cried, 'these glories! scenes 
•divine ! 
Thou whose sad prime in pining want 
decays [thine, 

And these, O rapture ! these shall all be 
If thou wilt give to me, not God, the praise. 
Hath he not given to indigence thy days? 
Is not thy portion peril here and pain? 
Oh ! leave his temples, shun his wounding 
ways ! 
Seize the tiara ! these mean weeds disdain, 
Kneel, kneel, thou man of wo, and peace and 
splendor gain.' 

XXI. 

' Is it not written,' sternly he replied, 
' Tempt not the Lord thy God !' Frowning 
he spake, 
And instant sounds, as of the ocean tide, 
Rose, and the whirlwind from its prison 

brake, 
And caught me up aloft, till in one flake, 
The sidelong volley met my swift career, 
And smote me earthward. — Jove himself 
might quake 
At such a fall ; my sinews crack'd, and near, 
Obscure and dizzy sounds seem'd ringing in 
mine ear. 

XXII. 

Senseless and stunn'd I lay ; till, casting 
round 
My half unconscious gaze, I saw the foe 
Borne on a car of roses to the ground, 
By volant angels ; and as sailing slow 
He sunk, the hoary battlement below, 
While on the tall spire slept the slant sun- 
beam, [flow 
Sweet on the enamour'd zephyr was the 
Of heavenly instruments. Such strains oft 
seem, 
On star-light hill, to soothe the Syrian shep- 
herd's dream. 

XXIII. 

I saw blaspheming. Hate renew'd my 
strength ; 
I smote the ether with my iron wing, 
And left the accursed scene. — Arrived at 
length [bring 

In these drear halls, to ye, my peers ! I 
The tidings of defeat. Hell's haughty king 
Thrice vanquish'd, baffled, smitten, and 
dismay'd ! 
O shame! Is this the hero who could fling 
Defiance at his Maker, while array'd, 
High o'er the walls of light rebellion's banners 
play'd! 



Yet shall not Heaven's bland minions 
triumph long ; 
Hell yet shall have revenge. — O glorious 
sight, 
Prophetic visions on my fancy throng, 
I see wild Agony's lean finger write 
Sad figures on his forehead! — Keenly 
bright 
Revenge's flambeau burns ! Now in his eyes 
Stand the hot tears, — immantled in the 
night, 
Lo ! he retires to mourn ! — I hear his cries ! 
He faints — he falls — and lo ! — 'tis true, ye 
powers, he dies." 

XXV. 

Thus spake the chieftain, — and as if he view'd 
The scene he pictured, with his foot ad- 
vanced 
And chest inflated, motionless he stood, 
While under his uplifted shield he glanced, 
With straining eye-ball fix'd, like one en- 
tranced, 
On viewless air ; — thither the dark platoon 
Gazed wondering, nothing seen, save when 
there danced 
The northern flash, or fiend late fled from 
noon, 
Darken'd the disk of the descending moon. 

XXVI. 

Silence crept stilly through the ranks. — The 
breeze 
Spake most distinctly. As the sailor stands, 
When all the midnight gasping from the seas 
Break bodingsobs, and to his sightexpands 
High on the shrouds the spirit that com- 
mands 
The ocean- farer's life ; so stiff— so sear 
Stood each dark power ; — while through 
their numerous bands [fear 

Beat not one heart, and mingling hope and 
Now told them all was lost, now bade revenge 
appear. 

XXVII. 

One there was there, whose loud defying 

tongue [swell 

Nor hope^or fear had silenced, but the 

Of over-boiling malice. Utterance long 

His passion mock'd, and long he strove to 

tell 
His labouring ire ; still syllable none fell 
From his pale quivering lip, but died away 

For very fury ; from each hollow cell 
Half sprang his eyes, that cast a flamy ray, 
And ***** 



THE CHBISTIAB. 



71 



XXVIII. 



M This comes," at length burst from the 
furious chief, [behold 

" This comes of distant counsels ! Here 
The fruits of wily cunning ! the relief 
Which coward policy would fain unfold, 
To soothe the powers that warr'd with 
Heaven of old I 
O wise ! O potent ! O sagacious snare ! 
And lo ! our prince — the mighty and the 
bold, [air, 

There stands he, spell-struck, gaping at the 
While Heaven subverts his reign, and plants 
her standard there." 

XXIX. 

Here, as recovered, Satan fix'd his eye 

Full on the speaker ; dark it was and 

stern ; [gloomily, 

He wrapp'd his black vest round him 

And stood like one whom weightiest 

thoughts concern. 
Him Moloch mark'd, and strove again 
to turn [cried, 

His soul to rage. " Behold, behold," he 
" The lord of Hell, who bade these 
legions spurn 
Almighty rule — behold he lays aside 
The spear of just revenge, and shrinks, by 
man defied." 

XXX. 

Thus ended Moloch, and his' [burning] 

tongue [heat 

Hung quivering, as if [mad] to quench its 

In slaughter. So, his native wilds among, 

The famish'd tiger pants, when, near his 

seat, 
Press'd on the sands, he marks the travel- 
ler's feet. 
Instant low murmurs rose, and many a sword 
Had from its scabbard sprung ; but toward 
the seat 
Of the arch-fiend all turn'd with one accord, 
As loud he thus harangued the sanguinary 
horde. 



" Ye powers of Hell, I am no coward. 1 
proved this of old: who led your forces against 
the armies of Jehovah? Who coped with 
Ithuriel and the thunders of the Almighty? 
Who, when stunned and confused ye lay on 
the burning lake, who first awoke, and col- 
lected your scattered powers ? Lastly, who led 
you across the unfathomable abyss to this de- 
lightful world, and established that reign here 



which now totters to its base ? How, therefore, 
dares yon treacherous fiend to cast a stain on 
Satan's bravery? he who preys only on the 
defenceless — who sucks the blood of infants, 
and delights only in acts of ignoble cruelty 
and unequal contention. Away with the 
boaster who never joins in action, but, like 
a cormorant, hovers over the field, to feed 
upon the wounded, and overwhelm the dying. 
True bravery is as remote from rashness as 
from hesitation ; let us counsel coolly, but let 
us execute our counselled purposes deter- 
minately. In power we have learned, by that 
experiment which lost us Heaven, that we are 
inferior to the Thunder-bearer: — In subtlety 
— in subtlety alone we are his equals. Open 
war is impossible. 



Thus we shall pierce our Conqueror, through 
the race 
Which as himself he loves ; thus if we fall, 
We fall not with the anguish, the disgrace 
Of falling unrevenged. The stirring call 
Of vengeance wrings within me ! War- 
riors all, 
The word is vengeance, and the spur despair. 
Away with coward wiles ! — Death's coal- 
black pall [glare 
Be now our standard ! — Be our torch the 
Of cities fired ! our fifes, the shrieks that fill 
the air!" 

Him answering rose Mecashpim, who of old, 

Far in the silence of Chaldea's groves, 
Was worshipp'd, God of Fire, with charms 
untold 
And mystery. His wandering spirit roves, 
Now vainly searching for the flame it loves, 
And sits and mourns like some white-robed 
sire, 
Where stood his temple, and where fra- 
grant cloves 
And cinnamon upheap'd the sacred pyre, 
And nightly magi watch'd the everlasting fire. 

He waved his robe of flame, he cross'd his 
breast, 

And sighing — his papyrus scarf survey'd, 
Woven with dark characters ; then thus ad- 

The troubled council. [dress'd 



I. 

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme 
With self-rewarding toil, thus far have 
sung* 
Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem 
The lyre - which I in early dayshavestrung; 



72 



And now my spirits faint, and I 
hung 
The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour, 
On the dark cypress ! and the strings 
which rung 
With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are 
o'er, 
Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are 
heard no more. 

And must the harp of Judah sleep again? 
Shall I no more re-animate the lay ? 



TRIBUTARY VERSES 

have 



Oh ! thou who visitest the sons of men, 
Thou who dost listen when the humble 
pray, [day ! 

One little space prolong my mournful 
One little lapse suspend thy last decree ! 

I am a youthful traveller in the way, 
And this slight boon would consecrate to 
thee, 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that 
1 am free. 



S®2IBir2>A3B^ TISIBSIBOc 



LINES AND NOTE 

BY LORD BYRON. 

Unhappy White !* while life was in its spring, 
And thy young muse just waved her joyous 

wing, 
The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair 
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. 
Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When science' self destroyed her favourite 

son ! [suit, 

Yes! she too much indulged thy fond pur- 
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd 

the fruit. 
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee 

low. 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his 

heart. 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 

* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge in October, 
1806, in consequence of too much exertion in the pursuit 
of studies that would have matured a mind which disease 
and poverty could not impair, and which death itself de- 
stroyed rather than subdued. His poems abound in such 
beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest re- 
gret that so short a period was allotted to talents, which 
would have dignified even the sacred functions he was 
destined to assume. 



While the same plumage that had warm'd his 

nest, 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 



WRITTEN IN 

THE HOMER OF MR. H. K. WHITE. 

Presented to me by his Brother, J. Neville White. 

Bard of brief days, but ah, of deathless 
fame ! [rest, 

While on these awful leaves my fond eyes 

On which thine late have dwelt, thy hand 
late press'd, 
I pause ; and gaze regretful on thy name. 
By neither chance nor envy, time nor flame, 

Be it from this its mansion dispossess'd ! 

But thee Eternity clasps to her breast, 
And in celestial splendor thrones thy claim. 

II. 

No more with/mortal pencil shalt thou trace 

An imitative radiance :* thy pure lyre 
Springs from our changeful atmosphere's em- 
brace, 
And beams and breathes in empyreal fire : 
The Homeric and Miltonian sacred tone 
Responsive hail that lyre congenial to their 
own. C. L. 

Bury, 11th Jan. 1807. 

* Alluding to his pencilled sketch of a head surrounded 
with a glory. 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



73 



MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE. 

BY A LADY. 

If worth, if genius, to the world are dear, 
To Henry's shade devote no common tear. 
His worth on no precarious tenure hung, 
From genuine piety his virtues sprung : 
If pure benevolence, if steady sense, 
Can to the feeling heart delight dispense ; 
If all the highest efforts of the mind, 
Exalted, noble, elegant, refined, 
Call for fond sympathy's heart- felt regret, 
Ye sons of genius, pay the mournful debt : 
His friends can truly speak how large his 

claim, 
And " Life was only wanting to his fame." 
Art Thou, indeed, dear youth, for ever fled? 
So quickly numbered with the silent dead. 
Too sure I read it in the downcast eye, 
Hear it in mourning friendship's stifled sigh. 
Ah ! could esteem, or admiration, save 
So dear an object from th' untimely grave, 
This transcript faint had not essay'd to tell, 
The loss of one beloved, revered so well. 
Vainly I try, even eloquence were weak, 
The silent sorrow that I feel, to speak. 
No more my hours of pain thy voice will 

cheer, 
And bind my spirit to this lower sphere ; 
Bend o'er my suffering frame with gentle sigh, 
And bid new fire relume my languid eye : 
No more the pencil's mimic art command, 
And with kind pity guide my trembling hand ; 
Nor dwell upon the page in fond regard, 
To trace the meaning of the Tuscan bard. 
Vain all the pleasures Thou can'st not inspire, 
And " in my breast th' imperfect joys expire," 
I fondly hoped thy hand might grace my 

shrine, [thine : 

And little dream'd I should have wept o'er 
In Fancy's eye methought I saw thy lyre 
With virtue's energies each bosom fire ; 
I saw admiring nations press around, 
Eager to catch the animating sound : 
And when, at length, sunk in the shades of 

night, [flight, 

To brighter worlds thy spirit wing'd its 
Thy country hail'd thy venerated shade, 
And each graced honour to thy memory paid. 

Such was the fate hope pictured to my view 

But who, alas ! e'er found hope's visions true ? 
And, ah ! a dark presage, when last we met, 
Sadden'd the social hour with deep regret ; 
When Thou thy portrait from the mins'trel 

drew, 
The living Edwin starting on my view- 
Silent, I ask'd of Heaven a lengthen'd date ; 
His genius thine, but not like thine his fate. 



Shuddering I gazed, and saw too sure re- 

veal'd, 
The fatal truth, by hope till then conceal'd. 
Too strong the portion of celestial flame 
For its weak tenement, the fragile frame ; 
Too soon for ts it sought its native sky, 
And soar'd impervious to the mortal eye ; 
Like some clear planet, shadow'd from our 

sight, 
Leaving behind long tracks of lucid light : 
So shall thy bright example fire each youth 
With love of virtue, piety, and truth. 
Long o'er thy loss shall grateful Grant? 

mourn, 
And bid her sons revere thy favour'd urn. 
When thy loved flower " Spring's victory 

makes known," 
The primrose pale shall bloom for thee alone : 
Around thy urn the rosemary we'll spread, 
Whose " tender fragrance," — emblem of the 

dead — 
Shall " teach the maid, whose bloom no longer 

lives," 
That " virtue every perish'd grace survives." 
Farewell ! sweet Moralist ; heart-sickening 

grief 
Tells me in duty's paths to seek relief, 
With surer aim on faith's strong pinions rise, 
And seek hope's vanish'd anchor in the skies. 
Yet still on thee shall fond remembrance 

dwell, 
And to the world thy worth delight to tell ; 
Though well I feel unworthy Thee the lays 
That to thy memory weeping friendship 

pays. 



STANZAS 

Supposed to have been written at the Grave of 
H. K. White. 



BY A LADY. 



Ye gentlest gales ! oh, hither waft, 
On airy undulating sweeps, 

Your frequent sighs, so passing soft, 
Where he, the youthful Poet, sleeps ! 

He breathed the purest, tenderest sigh, 

The sigh of sensibility. 



And thou shalt lie, his favourite flower, 
Pale Primrose, on his grave reclined: 

Sweet emblem of his fleeting hour, 
And of his pure, his spotless mind ! 

Like thee, he sprung in lowly vale ; 

And felt, like thee, the living gale. 
K 



74 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



Nor hence thy pensive eye seclude, 
Oh thou, the fragrant Rosemary, 

Where he, " in marble solitude, 
So peaceful, and so deep," doth lie ! 

His harp prophetic sung to thee 

In notes of sweetest minstrelsy. 



Ye falling dews, Oh ! ever leave 
Your chrystal drops these flowers to steep 

At earliest morn, at latest eve, 
Oh let them for their Poet weep ! 

For tears bedew'd his gentle eye, 

The tears of heavenly sympathy. 



Thou western Sun, effuse thy beams ; 

For he was wont to pace the glade, 
To watch in pale uncertain gleams, 

The crimson-zoned horizon fade— 
Thy last, thy setting radiance pour, 
Where he is set to rise no more. 



ODE 

On the late H. K. White. 
And is the minstrel's voyage o'er ? 

And is the star of genius fled? 
And will his magic harp no more, 

Mute in the mansions of the dead, 
Its strains seraphic pour 1 

A Pilgrim in this world of wo, 
Condemn'd, alas ! awhile to stray, 

Where bristly thorns, where briars grow, 
He bade, to cheer the gloomy way, 

Its heavenly music flow. 

Aud oft he bade, by fame inspired, 
Its wild notes seek th' ethereal plain, 

Till angels by its music fired, 
Have, listening, caught th' ecstatic strain, 

Have wonder'd, and admired. 

But now secure on happier shores, 
With choirs of sainted souls he sings ; 

His harp th' Omnipotent adores, 
And from its sweet, its silver strings 

Celestial music pours. 

And though on earth no more he'll weave 
The lay that's fraught with magic fire, 

Yet oft shall Fancy hear at eve 
His now exalted, heavenly lyre 

In sounds ./Eolian grieve. 

JUVENIS. 
B. StoJce. 



VERSES 

Occasioned by the Death of H. K. White. 

What is this world at best, 
Though deck'd in vernal bloom, 
By hope and youthful fancy dress'd, 
What, but a ceaseless toil for rest, 
A passage to the tomb ? 
If flowerets strew 
The avenue, 
Though fair, alas ! how fading, and how few. 

And every hour comes arm'd 
By sorrow, or by wo : 
Conceal'd beneath its little wings, 
A sithe the soft-shod pilferer brings, 
To lay some comfort low : 
Some tie t' unbind, 
By love entwined, 
Some silken bond that holds the captive mind. 

And every month displays 
The ravages of time : 
Faded the flowers ! — The Spring is past ! 
The scatter'd leaves, the wintry blast, 
Warn to a milder clime : 
The songsters flee 
The leafless tree, 
And bear to happier realms their melody. 

Henry ! the world no more 
Can claim thee for her own ! 
In purer skies thy radiance beams ! 
Thy lyre employ'd on nobler themes 
Before th' eternal throne : 
Yet, spirit dear, 
Forgive the tear 
Which those must shed who're doom'd to 
linger here. 

Although a stranger, I 
In friendship's train would weep : 
Lost to the world, alas ! so young, 
And must thy lyre, in silence hung, 
On the dark cypress sleep ? 
The poet, all 
Their friend may call ; 
And Nature's self attends his funeral. 

Although with feeble wing 
Thy flight I would pursue, 
With quicken'd zeal, with humbled pride, 
Alike our object, hopes, and guide, 
One heaven alike'in view ; 
True, it was thine 
To tower, to shine ; 
But I may make thy milder virtues mine. 

If Jesus own my name, 

(Though fame pronounced it never,) 



TRIBUTARY VERSES. 



15 



Sweet spirit, not with thee alone, 
But all whose absence here I moan, 
Circling with harps the golden throne, 
shall unite for ever: 
At death then why 
Tremble or sigh ? 
Oh ! who would wish to live, but he who 
fears to die ! 

JOSIAH CONDER. 
Dec. 5th 1807. 



SONNET, 

On seeing another written to IL K. White, in September 
1803, inserted in his " Remains by Robert Southey." 

BY ARTHUR OWEN. 

An ! once again the long-left wires among, 
Truants the Muse to weave her requiem song ; 
With sterner lore now busied, erst the lay 
Cheer'd my dark morn of manhood, wont to 

stray 
O'er fancy's fields in quest of musky flower ; 
To me nor fragrant less, though barr'd from 
view [hour 

And courtship of the world : haiPd was the 
That gave me, dripping fresh with nature's 
dew, 
Poor Henry's budding beauties — to a clime 
Hapless transplanted, whose exotic ray 
Forced their young vigour into transient day, 
And drain'd the stalk that rear'd them ! and 
shall time [breathe 

Trample these orphan blossoms ? — No ! they 
Still lovelier charms — for Southey culls the 
wreath ! 
Oxford, Dec. 17th, 1807. 



SONNET 

In Memory of Mr. H. K. White. 

" 'Tis now the dead of night," and I will go 
To where the brook soft-murmuring glides 
along [song 

In the still wood ; yet does the plaintive 
Of Philomela through the welkin flow ; 
And while pale Cynthia carelessly doth throw 

Her dewy beams the verdant boughs among, 

Will sit beneath some spreading oak tree 
strong, 
And intermingle with the streams my wo : 
Hnsh'd in deep silence every gentle breeze ; 

No mortal breath disturbs the awful gloom ; 

Cold, chilling dew-drops trickle down the 

trees, [fume : 

And every flower withholds it3 rich per- 



'Tis sorrow leads me to that sacred ground 
Where Henry moulders in a sleep profound ! 

J. G. 



REFLECTIONS, 

On reading the Life of the late H. K. White. 

BY WILLIAM HOLLO WAY, 

Author of " The Peasant's Fate." 

Darling of science and the muse, 
How shall a son of song refuse 

To shed a tear for thee ? 
To us, so soon, for ever lost, [cross'd 

What hopes, what prospects have been 

By Heaven's supreme decree ? 

How could a parent, love-beguiled, 
In life's fair prime resign a child 

So duteous, good, and kind ? 
The warblers of the soothing strain 
Must string the elegiac lyre in vain 

To soothe the wounded mind ! 

Yet Fancy, hovering round the tomb, 
Half envies, while she mourns thy doom, 

Dear poet, saint, and sage ! 
Who into one short span, at best, 
The wisdom of an age compress'd, 

A patriarch's lengthen'd age) 

To him a genius sanctified, 
And purged from literary pride, 

A sacred boon was given : 
Chaste as the psalmist's harp, his lyre 
Celestial raptures could inspire, 

And lift the soul to Heaven. 

'Twas not the laurel earth bestows, 
'Twas not the praise from man that flows 

With classic toil he sought : 
He sought the crown that martyrs wear, 
When rescued from a world of care ; 

Their spirit too he caught. 

Here come, ye thoughtless, vain, and gay, 
Who idly range in Folly's way, 

And learn the worth of time : 
Learn ye, whose days have run to waste, 
How to redeem this pearl at last, 

Atoning for your crime. 

This flower, that droop'd in one cold clime, 
Transplanted from the soil of time 

To immortality, 
In full perfection there shall bloom ; 
And those who now lament his doom 

Must bow to God's decree. 
London, 27th Feb. 1808. 



7fi TRIBUTARY VERSES. 

ON READING THE POEM ON 
SOLITUDE, 



In the second Volume of H. K. White's " Remains. 11 

But art thou thus indeed '« alone ?" 
Quite unbefriended — all unknown 1 
And hast thou then his name forgot 
Who form'd thy frame, and fix'd thy lot ? 

Is not his voice in evening's gale ? 
Beams not with him the " star" so pale ? 
Is there a leaf can fade and die, 
Unnoticed by his watchful eye ? 

Each fluttering hope — each anxious fear — 
Each lonely sigh — each silent tear — ■ 
To thine Almighty Friend are known ; 
And say'st thou, thou art " all alone?" 

JOSIAH CONDER. 



MEMORY OF H. K. WHITE, 

BY THE REV, W. B. COLLYER, A. M. 

O, lost too 6oon ! accept the tear 
A stranger to thy memory pays 1 

Dear to the muse, to science dear, 
In the young morning of thy days ! 

All the wild notes that pity loved 
Awoke, responsive still to thee, 

While o'er the lyre thy fingers roved 
In softest, sweetest harmony. 

The chords that in the human heart 
Compassion touches as her own, 

Bore in thy symphonies a part — • 
With them in perfect unison. 

Amidst accumulated woes, 
That premature afflictions bring, 

Submission's sacred hymn arose, 
Warbled from every mournful string. 

When o'er thy dawn the darkness spread, 
And deeper every moment grew ; 

When rudely round thy youthful head, 
The chilling blasts of sickness blew ; 



Religion heard no 'plainings loud, 
The sigh in secret stole from thee ; 

And pity, from the " dropping cloud,' 
Shed tears of holy sympathy. 



Cold is that heart in which were met 
More virtues than could ever die ; 

The morning-star of hope is set — 
The sun adorns another sky. 

O partial grief ! to mourn the day 

So suddenly o'erclouded here, 
To rise with unextinguish'd ray — 

To shine in a superior sphere ! 

Oft genius early quits this sod, 

lmpatieut of a robe of clay, 
Spreads the light pinion, spurns the clod, 

And smiles, and soars, and steals away ! 

But more than genius urged thy flight, 
And mark'd the way, dear youth ! for thee ; 

Henry sprang up to worlds of light, 
On wings of immortality ! 
Blackheath Hill, 24th June, 1808. 



THE DEATH OF H. K. WHITE. 

Too, too prophetic did thy wild note swell, 
Impassion'd minstrel ! when its pitying 
wail 
Sigh'd o'er the vernal primrose as it fell 

Untimely, wither'd by the northern gale.* 
Thou wert that flower of promise and of prime ! 
Whose opening bloom, 'mid many an adverse 
blast, [clime, 

Charm'd the lone wanderer through this desart 
But charm'd him with a rapture soon o'er- 
cast, 
To see thee languish into quick decay. 

Yet was not thy departing immature ? 
For ripe in virtue thou wert reft away, 

And pure in spirit, as the bless'd are pure ; 

Pure as the dew-drop, freed from earthly 

leaven, [heaven !f 

That sparkles, is exhaled, and blends with 

T. Park. 



* See Clifton Grove, p. 16, ed. 1803. 
t Young, I think, says of Narcissa, 
exhaled, and went to Heaven." 



she sparkled,was 



END OF POETICAL REMAINS. 






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